
riassJBIZSL 

BookV s P' / 

PRESENTED 11Y 

18.<7 



PASTOR'S SKETCHES: 



OB, 



Gimtoemtifftts toit| Qmibm Iwpims, 



RESPECTING 



THE WAY OF SALVATION, 



6 Avxvog avrfjg to 'Apviov, 



ICHABOD S." SPENCER, D.D. 

FA3TOR Of THE SECOND PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH BROOKLYN, 5f. Y. 



Seconb Series, 



SIXTH THOUSAND, 



NEW YORK: 
M. W . DODD, PUBLISHER, 

NO. 506 BROADWAY, 
(Opposite the St. Nicholas Hotel.) 

1857. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, 

BY tCHABOD S. SPENCER, 

In the Clerk's Office for the Southern District of New York. 



Gift 

Ben ram Smith 
March 16, 1934 



STEREOTYPED BT 



PRINTED by- 



THOMAS B. SMITH, "E. O. JENKIN9 

216 William St., N. Y. 



€ b n t nU s. 



TAGS 

THE L' MYERS ALIST's DAUGHTER 11 

THE LOST CHILD : OR, AFFLICTION SANCTIFIED . . 24 

THE STORMY NIGHT! OR, PERSEYERANCE . . . .61 

THE CHOICE : HOLD ON OR LET GO .... 68 

THE NEGLECTED BIBLE 72 

NO ESCAPE 93 

THE DATE OF CONVERSION 100 

MY OLD MOTHER: OR, CONSCIENCE IN TRADE . . 123 

ONE WORD TO A SINNER 137 

NOBODY SAID ANYTHING TO ME 139 

FAMILY PRAYER . 142 

DOCTRINES RECONCILED : OR, FREEDOM AND SOVEREIGNTY 145 
I can't PRAY I OR, THE TWO SISTERS . . . .154 

[ CAN'T FEEL 180 

WILLING TO BE LOST 186 

THE BIRD OF PARADISE 207 

SUPERSTITION 226 

THE WHISTLING THINKER 229 

UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION 249 

CEASING TO PRAY ....... 270 

CONTINUING TO PRAY 276 

HUMAN ABILITY 280 

THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS 312 

TRYING TO FIND GOD IN THE WRONG . . . .326 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

DELAY : OR, THE ACCEPTED TIME 344 

PHYSICAL INFLUENCE 350 

TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING 354 

UNKNOWN PRESENCE OF THE SPIRIT . . . .364 

A REVIVAL IS COMING .370 

THE BROKEN RESOLUTION 373 

WHAT CAN I DO? 385 

RELIGION AND RUM 389 

THE WORD OF A COMPANION . 392 

FASTING AND PRAYER 395 

GOD reigns: OR, DESPAIR 398 

THE LAST HOUR 408 

TEE DAWN OF HEAVEN , 420 



$nf*re« 

The following Sketches have no necessary connection 
with those formerly published, and contained in another 
volume. Each volume is complete by itself, though the 
two are fit companions for each other. 

The favorable reception which the former volume met 
with from the public, — the numerous testimonials of its 
usefulness to private individuals, which have been received 
from many different parts of the country. — and more 
especially the similar testimonials received from many of 
his ministerial brethren, have induced the author to be- 
lieve it to be his cluly^ to issue this additional volume. 
The former one has a thousand-fold more than realized 
every expectation that was ever entertained by the author 
respecting it ; and although this volume may be less in- 
teresting in tender and affecting incidents, it is believed 
there are some reasons to hope, it will not prove less 
useful. 

The author has aimed to present here such sketches as 
are unlike those of the former publication ; so as to avoid, 
as much as possible, the needless repetition of the same 
ideas and arguments, and to make the volume a fit com- 
panion for the one which preceded it. 



VI PREFACE. 

In these volumes, the author is not to be understood 
as professing to exhibit all the phases of Christian expe- 
rience. To the varieties of such experience there is no 
assignable or conceivable end. Experiences are varied and 
modified by a thousand circumstances, which no pen can 
describe. — -by age, by condition, by illness, by peculiarities 
of mind and disposition, by the kind of preaching which 
has been heard, by associations, by habits of life, and per- 
haps, by the sovereign and infinite wisdom of the Divine 
Spirit, in Hi* enlightening and saving influences Some- 
times one doctrine, or class of truths, and sometimes an- 
other, will take the lead in the reflections of an anxious 
mind , and so varied will these reflections become, that 
(it is believed), no wise man will ever attempt to describe 
religious experiences, which shall embrace all possible 
varieties. The circle of religions experience is immense, 
if not infinite. But this fact need discourage no inquirer. 
need embarass no minister of the Gospel. The truth of 
God, after all, is simple : there never was a soul to which 
it is not applicable, and it is the sole instrument of the 
Spirit in the sanctificatiou of the soul : and therefore 
there will be points of very distinct resemblance in all 
the saving experiences of men. And if what the author 
has written upon this subject tends to show, that the same 
truths are applicable to all souls : his work may not be 
valueless in illustrating the simplicity of the Christian 
religion, in conducting bewildered minds to the path of 
truth and salvation, and in showing, that the power and 
excellence of the Gospel lie in the great doctrines of grace. 



PKEFAC E. Yll 

—doctrines applicable to all souls who would find the 
way to Christ and eternal life. 

The purpose of this book is not sectarian. It is confi- 
dently believed, that nothing which is here written can 
give any offence to evangelical Christians of any denomi- 
nation. Not willingly would the author wound the feel- 
ings of an y human being ; and he has aimed here, to deal 
only with the religion of the heart, and the truths which 
promote it. 

It is not probable, that all readers of this book will 
entirely approve the mode of the author's conversations 
with the inquiring. He has only to say, that his reliance 
has been placed upon the truth alone, as the instrument 
of the Holy Spirit in leading sinners to heaven ; and con- 
sequently his aim, in these conversations, was simply to 
cause the truth to be understood, felt, and received, as 
the sole and sure guide. The matter of his teaching can 
be better judged of, by this book, than the manner of his 
teaching. The propriety of mariner has respect to the 
person, his age, state of mind, and other things ; and to 
give such a minute description of all these personalities 
as to justify the manner in which he spoke, the author 
knew full well would make the book too large, and dimin- 
ish the power of its truth. But he has always been un- 
willing to utter a single sentence, which could wound the 
feelings of an anxious inquirer after truth, aiming to find 
his way up to the Cross, and perplexed and harassed with 
the doubts, and difficulties, and darknesses of his own 
troubled mind. And ha may be permitted to say, that 



Vlll PREFACE. 

some of the expressions contained in this book, (and the 
former one also.) which, to a mere reader, will probably 
sound abrupt, and perhaps severe, are expressions which 
assumed their peculiar style, from the supposed propriety 
of it in the case. It was felt to be an important thing to 
condense the truth, to make it plain, and pointed, and 
incapable of being misunderstood ; but he hopes and trusts 
there are no expressions here which will be found offensive 
to refined taste. Christianity, certainly, is kindness, and 
good manners, and good taste ; and the author is confi- 
dent, that he never uttered an unkind expression upon 
the ear of any inquirer, and never unnecessarily wounded 
the feelings of any one, who ever did him the favor to 
come to him. About the mode of conversation, men will 
entertain opinions somewhat unlike : the author can only 
say, he aimed to impress the truth upon the mind in the 
most effectual manner ; and he feels fully satisfied with 
the kind regards towards himself, which are entertained 
by those who have been led to Christ under his ministra- 
tions. They both prize and love him far more than he 
deserves. 

Some of the conversations recorded here, (as well as 
those contained in the former volume.) have a character 
which they could not have possessed, had it not been for 
an advantage, which the author always strove to improve. 
"Whenever it was practicable, he studied the subjects be- 
forehand. Having met an individual once, and expecting 
to meet him again, he carefully considered his case, 
aimed to anticipate his difficulties, studied the whole sub 



PREFACE. IX 

ject intensely, and, in many cases, wrote sermons upon it, 
the substance of which afterwards came out, to a greater 
or less extent, in the conversation. Thus, the conversa- 
tions aided the sermons, and the sermons aided the con- 
versations. If he might be permitted to do so, the author 
would commend this mode of ministerial action to younger 
ministers of the gospel. 

What is here presented to the public, has been submit- 
ted to the inspection of some of the author's ministerial 
brethren, in whose judgment and taste he has great confi- 
dence ; and, without their approval, these pages would 
never have been printed. 

If this humble volume, by the blessing of God, shall be 
the means of aiding sinners in the way of salvation, and 
of any little assistance to the younger ministers of the 
Gospel, in directing the anxious, and guiding the per- 
plexed, and comforting the broken in heart, the author's 
hopes will be realized. 



Brooklyn, N. Y., 
March. 1853. 



Cljc Eititaaliafs gaugJUr* 

There was something, as I thought, not a little 
peculiar in the religious aspect of a young married 
woman in my congregation, whom I sometimes vis- 
ited, and strove to influence on the subject of religion. 
She was not a pious woman, but greatly respected 
religion, and was a constant attendant at church. It 
was her seriousness which first made me particularly 
acquainted with her; though before that time, I had 
sometimes urged her to attend to the concerns of a 
future life. At her solicitation, as I understood, her 
husband, with herself, had left my congregation 
about six months before, and they had attended an- 
other church, until they were induced to come back 
to our church, one evening, by the expectation of 
hearing a clergyman from a distance. As she found 
I was to preach (for the stranger clergyman was not 
there), she whispered to her husband, proposing to 
leave the place and go home; but he refused to 
go, for he said it did " not look well." They con- 
stantly attended our church after that evening ; and 
when they became seriously disposed to seek the 



12 THE UXIVERSALIST'S DAUGHTER. 

Lord, I became more intimately acquainted with 
them. She had become deeply serious, but appeared 
strange to me. I could not discover precisely what 
it was that was peculiar about her, but there was 
something. She was uniformly solemn, appeared to 
me to be frank and candid, was an intelligent wo- 
man, had become prayerful, and at times deeply 
anxious about her future welfare. And yet, as weeks 
passed on, she appeared to make no progress, but 
remained in much the same state of mind, unsettled 
and without peace. 

She had no resting-spot. Whenever her thoughts 
were directed to the subject of religion, a pensiveness 
would spread over her soul, like the shadow of a 
cloud over the summer landscape. I pitied her. She 
was an interesting woman. Her naturally fine mind 
had not been neglected. She had received the ac- 
complishments of a careful education. She was 
young, she was beautiful, she was tasteful; and the 
ease of her manners threw an additional gracefulness 
over her tall and graceful person. But a cloud was 
on her brow. It was out of its place — it had no 
right there. Such a brow ought to be bathed in 
the sun-light. A heart like hers ought not to be the 
victim of some secret and mysterious sorrow, and 
such a soul as hers ought to find in the kindness of 
Christ the balm for its sorrows. 

She had been married about a year, and her hus- 



THE UN I VERS A LIST'S DAUGHTER. 13 

band, like herself, had become interested in the sub- 
ject of religion. But they were very unlike in their 
religious successes. He seemed to get onwards ; she 
remained stationary and sad. They were about the 
same age (twenty-seven, perhaps), and in other re- 
spects much resembled each other ; but they were 
unlike in religion. 

She was born and had been educated in a distant 
part of the country, and among people of somewhat 
different manners; and I thought that she might 
perhaps have some feelings of melancholy and lone- 
liness, as she had come to reside among strangers, 
But I found she had no feelings of that kind. On 
the contrary, she was delighted with her new home ; 
was easy and familiar, and friendly in her social 
intercourse with her new acquaintances. Several 
times I called upon her, and aimed to discover what 
made her so downcast in mind, and especially what 
hindered her from attaining peace with God, through 
faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. But I could gain no 
light on the subject. After all my conversation 
with her, the peculiarity which hung around her 
was as mysterious to me as ever. 

At one time I suspected that her seriousness might 
arise more from mere fear than from any just sense 
of her sin ; and therefore I aimed, by explanation 
of the law of God, and by application of it to her 
own heart, to render her conviction more deep and 



14 THE UNIVERSALIST'S DAUGHTER. 

clear. But, to my surprise, I found that her sense 
of sin and unworthiness, and of the wickedness of 
her heart, appeared to be more than usually deep 
and solemn. 

At another time I feared that she might have a 
very imperfect idea of the freeness of divine grace ; 
and therefore I aimed to show her how ' the kindness 
and love of God our Saviour' offers to every sinner 
pardon and eternal life as a free gift, by us unmer- 
ited and unbought. And again to my surprise, I 
found that her ideas on this point also appeared as 
clear and as strong as any that I could express. 

So it was with her, as it seemed to me, on every 
part of evangelical truth. I could discover in her 
mind no error or deficiency : and could not even 
conjecture what kept her from flying to Christ in 
faith. Evidently the Holy Spirit was with her, but 
she yet lingered ; and her state appeared to me 
the more wonderful, because her husband had be- 
come, as we believed, a follower of Christ, and was 
cheerful and happy in hope. 

As I was conversing with her one day about her 
state of mind, she somewhat surprised me by sud- 
denly asking, — 

11 Will you lend me the Presbyterian Confession 
of Faith?" 

u Certainly, Madam," said I, " if you want it ; but 
I advise you to let it alone." 



THE UN I VERBALIST'S DAUGHTER. 15 

44 1 want to know/' said she, " what the Presby- 
terians believe." 

" They believe just what you do, I suppose," said 
I ; " they believe the Bible, — they believe just what 
you hear me preach every Sabbath." 

" Other denominations," said she, " who disagree 
with you, profess to believe the Bible too." 

" Yes, that is all true ; but I do not wish you to 
agree with either ; but to agree with the Bible. I 
have no desire to make a Presbyterian of you. I 
only wish you to be a Christian, and I am fully con- 
tent to have you judge for yourself what the gospel 
teaches, without being influenced by the Presbyte- 
rian Confession of Faith or any other human com- 
position. The Bible is the rule. If we agree with 
it, we are right ; if not, we are wrong. You will 
understand it well enough to be saved, if you will 
study it prayerfully, and exercise your own good 
sense. You have to give an account of yourself unto 
God, and it matters little to you what other people 
believe." 

" Why are you unwilling," says she, "to have me 
read your Confession of Faith ?" 

4 'I am not unwilling, Madam, — not at all, if you 
wish to read it, I will bring it to you, with pleasure, 
at any time you desire it. But I am only expressing 
my opinion, that it will do you no good at present. 
[ think the Bible is far better for you to read just 



16 THE UNIVERSALIST'S DAUGHTER. 

now. At another time, the Confession of Faith may- 
be of service to you, but not now." 

" I was not brought up in the Presbyterian church, 
sir. My father is a Universalist, and my mind is 
not settled about the doctrines of religion." 

"Are you a Universalist too?" 

"No, sir, I don't think I am; but I don't know 
what to believe," said she most mournfully. 

" Do you believe the Bible is God's word?" 

" Oh, yes, I believe that." 

" Well, the Confession of Faith is not God's word 
(though in my opinion it substantially agrees with 
it) ; and I advise you to take the Bible and lay its 
truth upon your own heart, with all candor and 
with sincere prayer. If you get into the Confession 
of Faith, I am afraid you will not understand it so 
well as you can understand the Bible ; and I am 
afraid your understanding alone will be employed, 
and not your heart ; or at least, that you will have 
more of the spirit of speculation than of heart reli- 
gion, and will leave your sins, your Saviour, and 
salvation too much out of sight." 

" Oh, sir, I don't mean to do that." 

u I think, Madam, that you know perfectly well, 
that the Bible demands of you a repentance, and a 
faith, and a love of God, which you do not exercise ; 
and your first business should be, not to examine 
the Confession of Faith about a great many other 



THE UXIVERSALIST'S DAUGHTER. 17 

doctrines, but to get your heart right, — and what 
that means, the Bible teaches you, and you painfully 
feel its truth." 

" But, sir, I ought to know what a church believes, 
before I unite with it." 

" Most certainly you ought. But you are not 
prepared at present to unite with any church. You 
do not think yourself to be a true Christian at heart 
— a true penitent — a true believer — a sinner born 
again, and at peace with God through Jesus Christ. 
Come to these things first Get a heart religion ; and 
after that you will be better prepared to examine 
the Confession of Faith. But don't allow your mind 
to be led away into a wilderness of doctrines, to the 
neglect of your present, plain duty. You are an un- 
happy woman, a sinner without pardon. You have 
no peace of mind. And first of all, yes now on the 
spot, you ought to give up your heart to Christ, 
penitent for sin and trusting to the divine mercy. 
Here lies our present duty. Don't you think so 
yourself?" 

" Yes, sir, indeed I do," said she, sadly ; " i" wish 
Iivas a Christian? 

" I will send you the Confession of Faith if you 
desire it, but in my " 

" No, don't send it," said she, interrupting me, " I 
will not read it yet." 

"You said your father was a Universalist, but 



18 THE UNI VERBALIST'S DAUGHTER. 

you did not think you yourself were one. I have 
no desire to say anything to you about that doctrine. 
It is unnecessary. If you will read the Bible with 
candor and common sense, and with humble prayer 
for the direction of your heavenly Father, you cer- 
tainly can know as well as any one, what the Bible 
teaches about that. I leave that to your own judg- 
ment. If you find any difficulty on that or any 
other subject, I shall be happy to tell you hereafter 
just what I think. But I am sure }^ou cannot mis- 
take the meaning of God's word about the everlast- 
ing punishment of sinners." 

" Do come to see me again," said she, with a sad 
earnestness. " I am not satisfied to rest where I am. 
I will try to follow your advice." 

After a short prayer, I left her. In subsequent 
conversation with her, I discovered nothing to make 
her peculiarity or hindrance to repentance any more 
intelligible. I did not suppose that the religious 
opinions of her father were exerting any influence 
upon her mind, for it seemed to me, and to herself, 
too, that she had entirely abandoned them. 

Just at this time, her father paid her a visit, and 
remained with her for more than a week. He prob- 
ably noticed that she was unhappy, and probably 
knew the cause ; but he said nothing to her on the 
subject of religion. He was one of the prominent 
men and liberal supporters of a Universalist church 



THE UKIVERSALIST'S DAUGHTER. 19 

in the place of his residence ; and as she afterwards 
told me, she longed, day after day, while he re- 
mained with her, to talk with him about religion, 
and about her own feelings ; but he seemed to avoid 
all conversation which would lead to the subject, 
and she " could not muster courage enough," as she 
expressed it, "to speak to him and tell him how she 
felt." Every day she thought she certainly would 
do it, but every day she neglected it, and every 
night she wept bitterly over her neglect. Says she 
to me, "he is a very affectionate father, he has 
always treated me most kindly ; but I could not tell 
him how I felt — my heart failed me when I tried." 

The morning at last came when he was to leave 
her. He prepared for his departure, and she had 
not yet told him of the burden that lay on her heart. 
He bade her good-bye very affectionately, gave her 
the parting kiss, passed out at the door, and closed 
it after him. Suddenly, her whole soul was aroused 
within her. She " could not let him depart so." She 
hastily opened the door and ran after him through 
the little yard before the house, to the front gate. 
She flung her arms around him, "Father, oh, my 
father!" says she, the tears streaming from her eyes, 
" I want to ask you one question ; I can't let you go 
till you tell me. I have wanted to ask you ever 
Bince you came here, but I couldn't. I am very 
unhappy. I have been thinking a great deal about 



20 the universalist's daughter. 

religion lately, and I want to ask you one tiring. 
Tell me, father, what you truly think — you must tell 
me — do you really believe that all people will be 
saved hereafter, and be happy in another world? 
DonH deceive me, father, tell me what you really be- 
lieve." 

" Elizabeth,' 7 said he, with evident emotion, which 
he struggled to conceal, "I think it is very likely 
that some will be lost forever /" and lifting his hand 
to his brow, he instantly turned away and left her. 
He could not tell his daughter, as she hung upon 
him in such distress, that dangerous falsehood which 
he professed to believe. 

His tearful daughter returned into her house, the 
*ast prop knocked away, the last refuge gone! 
"Now," as she said to me afterwards, "she could 
look to nothing but Christ, and have hope only in 
sovereign mercy. My last deception was gone." 
And it was not long before she became as happy in 
hope, as she had been sad in her perplexities and 
fears. She was a firm and joyful Christian. 

She united with the church, and for more than 
twenty years has lived as a happy believer. Her 
children have grown up around her ; and some of 
them, the delight of her heart, are the followers of 
their mother's Saviour and their own. 

But her father returned to his home and his for- 
mer place of worship professing still before the 



THE UNI VERS A LIST S DAUGHTER. 21 

world to believe in universal salvation, a falsehood 
which he could not tell his daughter, when she wept 
upon his bosom. 

After her hopeful conversion she wrote to her 
father, giving him a simple and affectionate account 
of her religious experience, thanking him for his 
kindness in telling her his real opinion, and entreat- 
ing him to forsake a congregation where he himself 
knew he did not hear the truth — beseeching him to 
turn to Christ, that he might be saved from ever- 
lasting punishment. His reply to her letter was 
kind, but evasive. He made no response at all to 
the real burden of her letter. She then wrote to 
him again. In the most kind and touching manner 
she recapitulated her experience, told him of her 
sweet peace of mind, her joy and hope, and asked 
him whether he was willing that she should unite 
with the Presbyterian church, as she proposed to do, 
or would rather that she should be a Universalist. 
In his rejDi} 7 , he adverted to what he had said to her 
on the morning when he parted with her, and very 
.plainly assured her that he would rather have her 
join the Presbyterian church than his own. But 
still he avoided saying anything about himself. 
Again she wrote to him, and appealing to the decla- 
ration of that morning, and to his letter, she affec- 
tionately entreated him to obey the truth as it is in 
Christ Jesus, and not go down to death with a lie 



22 the universalist's daughter. 

in his right hand — a thing the more dreadful because 
he knew it was a lie ! 

But all this did no good. He remained in the 
Universalist church. Though for a time he appeared 
to waver, and occasionally for some weeks together 
would attend the Sabbath ministrations of another 
congregation, and sometimes wrote to his daughter 
in a manner which encouraged her to hope he would 
become a Christian; yet all this passed away, and 
the last time she mentioned her father to me, she 
told me with bitter tears, "He has gone back to the 
Universalists, and I am afraid he will be lost for- 
ever !" " Oh !" says she, " he knows better — they all 
know better — they try to believe their doctrine, but 
they don't believe it." I shrewdly suspect there is 
no little truth in her declaration. 

The course of this man at first appeared to me 
very astonishing. I marvelled at it beyond measure. 
I could not doubt that he told his daughter the truth, 
when he said he "thought it very likely that some 
would be lost forever." But while entertaining such 
an opinion, and while unwilling that the daughter 
whom he fondly loved should be a Universalist, 
that he should himself still continue to be a sup- 
porter of that system of falsehood, appeared to me 
most surprising. But I have ceased to wonder at it 
He only followed the inclination (as I suppose) of his 
wicked heart. He did not obey his conscience. He 



THE UNIVERSALIST'S DAUGHTER. 23 

only strove to pacify it with, a delightful deception. 
He did not loye the truth. And with some dark 
and indefinite notion about the salvation of all, he 
strove to hide himself from the power of the truth, 
which, he both feared and hated — hated, because lie 
feared. Any man who will be wicked and hardened 
enough thus to trifle with, truth, and thus to run 
counter to conscience, and thus aim to "believe a lie," 
may be left to do the same thing. Human depravity, 
fostered and indulged, has immense power, and will 
lead in strange ways to the eternal ruin of the 
soul. 

Sinners are sometimes kept from repentance by a 
hindrance which, they do not suspect. This woman 
was. She afterwards recollected, that idea would come 
floating over her mind, and lingering around it, " Per- 
haps all will be saved." And this it was that half 
stilled her fears, and half pacified her conscience, and 
threw a sort of dimness and doubt over tlie whole 
field of religion. On this account she lingered in 
her sins, and away from her Saviour. She knew 
not her own heart till it sunk within her, as her 
delusion fled. But she soon came to Christ after 
her delusion was dissipated by the words wrung 
from the conscience of her father on that memorable 
morning, ' Elizabeth, I think it is very likefy that 
some wil. be lost -for ever 1" 



Cjft fast CJpUr: 

OR, AFFLICTION SANCTIFIED. 

I eeceiyed a very polite and fraternal note from 
a neighboring clergyman, wliose kindness and con- 
fidence I had experienced many times before, desir- 
ing me to attend the funeral of the only child of a 
gentleman and lady, who had formerly been attend- 
ants on his ministry, though at that time they had 
come to reside nearer to myself. Another duty call- 
ed him to a distant part of the state, and he com- 
mended these afflicted parents to me. I had never 
seen them, and I believe they had never seen me ; 
but the brief note which commended them to me, 
prepared me to have a high respect for them, and to 
sympathize in their sadness, as they were now bereft 
of the only child they ever had. 

The person who brought me the note and engaged 
my services for the funeral, could tell me but little 
about them. They were not communicants of any 
church, though my clerical friend in his note gave 
me to understand that they were persons of a seri- 
ous turn of mind, and at times felt some personal 



THE LOST CHILD. 25 

anxiety, one or both of them, on the subject of reli- 
gion. 

I felt no hesitation about my duty. Indeed I 
could not mistake it, and had no desire to avoid it. 
But I was burdened with the impression, that it was 
a difficult duty for me to discharge with acceptance 
and propriety. It is a delicate thing to go to stran- 
gers in the day of their deep sadness. A friend may 
carry the balm of consolation to hearts that have 
often opened to him, but how can a stranger dare to 
meddle with the tenderness of grief? I feared that 
their hearts would be shut up against me — must be 
from the very nature of the case, or would recoil 
from me as an intruder, if I should attempt at all, 
stranger as I was, to meddle with the sacredness of 
their sorrow, or should even try to lay the consola- 
tion of heaven's mercy upon the grief-spot of their 
smitten bosoms. And I was the more embarrassed, 
on account of what their messenger had told me re- 
specting the child they had lost. It was a little gem 
of earth, — a most beautiful, intelligent and amiable 
little girl, about four years old, with a maturity of 
mind far beyond her years ; and her parents were 
peculiarly cast down, now when death had snatched 
her away. I knew that I could sympathize with 
them, but I did not know that they could receive 
my sympathy. Affliction seldom resorts to a stran 
ger. It seeks solace in solitude, or the sympathy of 



THE LOST CHILD 



some long-tried friend. And I was not a little afraid, 
that their tender and hallowed sadness would shrink 
from me, if I should attempt even to comfort them. 
They had no faith, as I supposed ; and I knew that 
nothing but the truths of Christianity could afford 
them anything better than a fictitious and deceptive 
comfort, worse than none. I knew that mere reason 
would be dumb over a corpse, — that no philosophy 
could grapple with grief and the grave. 

At the hour appointed I went to their house. It 
was filled with people. I spoke with the parents 
for a few moments, and before the funeral services 
commenced there was put into my hands the follow- 
ing letter : — 

" Dr. Spencer, 

Eev. Sir: — We thought we should like to 
give you a few particulars in regard to our only 
child. She was of uncommon promise, and for her 
age, possessed a mind much matured. During her 
illness of two weeks she was a great sufferer, without 
murmur or complaint. Her mind continued perfect 
until the last, and she would often say, 'Mamma, 
comfort your little daughter.' 

11 Previous to her last .-sickness she had enjoyed un- 
usual health with a heart full of mirth, tenderness 
and sympathy. She was a favorite, and beloved by 
all. We have never known her to speak an un 



THE LOST CHILD. 27 

truth. She loved to do right, and w*x» very consci- 
entious in regard to her conduct on the Sabbath. 
She loved to talk of God and heaven, and a few 
weeks since, while an uncle was veiy ill, she said, 
4 Mamma, when we die, if God would only take us 
in his arms and carry us right up into heaven, so we 
should not have to be put into the dark coffin, how 

happy it would be. ' "We trust she is now there. " 

* # # 

I read this affecting note (signed by both the pa- 
rents), and the funeral services were conducted in 
the usual manner. Before prayer, I aimed to say 
such things as I thought might be profitable to the 
assembled multitude, and such especially as I had 
some hope would bring at least a gleam of comfort 
to the crushed and bleeding hearts of these parents, 
now stripped of their precious treasure. It was a 
most solemn and tender occasion. The little coffin 
was placed near the folding doors, which open- 
ed between the parlors. I had looked into it 
just as I entered the room. Its slumbering tenant 
was lovely even in death. It looked as if it were 
asleep, and appeared more pure and beautiful than the 
flowers which were placed beside it, and on the cof- 
fin's lid. But that marble brow was cold ; and those 
lily lips, which seemed as if ready to utter some syl* 
lable of love, would never speak again. I could not 
look upon it. I turned away and wept. 



28 THE LOST CHILD. 

After the religious exercises were closed, I sat 
where I could see the countenances of the multitude, 
who came one after another and looked into the 
little coffin. I did not see one who turned away 
without eyes suffused with tears. Every one was 
affected. Old men, with stern and severe faces, 
wept over it. And when the parents came to take 
their last look, and the mother bent down over the 
coffin to give her last kiss to such a child, I felt 
that her heart must break. Tears streamed from 
her eyes ; her whole frame shook like an aspen 
leaf, with the dreadful violence of her agitation. 
There were no noisy out-bursts of grief, but such a 
deep and dreadful sorrow as seemed too much for 
nature to endure. She retired from the coffin sup- 
ported by her husband ; and tear-dimmed eyes fol- 
lowed her, as she went up to her chamber — a child- 
less mother ! 

Promising to call on them the next day, I left the 
melancholy scene; and this sweet child was con- 
veyed to the tomb. 

The next day I called at the house. Business 
had compelled the father to leave home, but the 
mother met me with a heavy heart. She could 
scarcely utter a syllable for some moments. She 
gave me her hand with a look of despair that horri- 
fied me ! 

'I have called to see you, madam," said I, "for 



THE LOST CHILD. 29 

I sympathize with you in your heavy trial, and if I 
could, I would say something which shall comfort 
you." 

Evidently struggling to conceal her emotions, she 
answered : 

" I am glad to see you, sir. I feel very wretched. 
I never expected such a trial as this. My child was 
everything to me. Our hearts were wrapped up in 
her, and now she is gone ! I do not know how to 
endure this. I cannot endure it — I feel that I can- 
not!" and she wept bitterly. 

"It is God, madam, who hath taken away your 
child. I am sorry for you, my heart bleeds for you. 
I do not blame you for mourning, and God will not 
blame you for it. You cannot avoid it, if you 
would ; and you would not, if you could." 

"Oh, no, sir," said she weeping, "she was such a 
lovely child — so affectionate and intelligent, and — 
my all! She had a maturity of mind far beyond 
her years. I wanted you to know something about 
her before the funeral ; and because we wished you 
to know something of her, we wrote you that little 
note." 

" That letter," said I, " affected me very much. I 
shall answer it as soon as I have time. It was put 
into my hands just after I came in here yesterday, 
and as I glanced over it and found her expression 
about being taken right up into heaven without 



30 THE LOST CHILD. 

being buried, I could not repress my emotions. I 
could scarcely command composure enough to con- 
duct the funeral exercises with propriety. I am sorry 
for you ; — I can weep with you ; but God alone can 
do you any good. Do you think you are submissive 
to His will?" 

" I am afraid not, sir. I know His will is right ; 
but I cannot feel reconciled to it as I ought. It is 
such a stroke to me, I know not how to bear it. I 
never knew what affliction was before. We were very 
happy. I am afraid we loved our child too much. 
I often thought how much I had to enjoy in my hus 
band and my child ; but now God has taken her away, 
and I am perfectly wretched." She sobbed aloud. 

" My heart bleeds for you, my dear friend ; but 
I want you to remember, that God only can comfort 
you, or make your affliction beneficial. You must 
not murmur. You must not rebel or repine. You 
are not forbidden to mourn. I do not blame your 
grief, and do not wish you to blame yourself for it ; 
but I want you to be satisfied with God, and especi- 
ally I want you to be profited by your dreadful trial. 
God means something by sending it ; and I want you 
to ask Him what He means, and be led by this sad 
providence nearer to Himself, in faith that rests on 
Christ and will fit you for another world. Do you 
think you have any faith ?" 

" Oh, no, sir. My mind is all dark. I have no 



THE LOST CHILD. 81 

comfort, no peace. It seems as if I could think of 
nothing but my child." 

"I do not blame you for thinking of her. You 
cannot help thinking ; but you ought to be led by 
this affliction to seek the Lord. Have you been 
praying to Him ?" 

" I have tried to pray, sir ; but my prayers seem 
almost like mockery. My thoughts wander ; and 
God seems to be very far off. I am entirely cast 
down. My heart seems broken, and I think there 
is no comfort for me in this world, now my child is 
gone." 

"I assure you, my dear friend," said I, "I feel 
your affliction deeply and tenderly ; and that makes 
me the more anxious for you, to have you fly in 
faith to that Saviour, to that God and Father, who 
I know has comfort for you, and will lay the balm 
of a precious solace upon that deep sorrow of heart, 
which no other friend can reach. Ply to Him, as a 
child to a father. He will not cast you off. He will 
love and comfort you ; I know He will." 

" I am very miserable," said she. " It seems to me 
that my trial is more than I can endure." 

" God will enable you to endure it, and to profit 
by it, if you give up sin and the world, and betake 
yourself to Him in faith. He invites you to his 
arms ; He wants you to lean upon Him confidingly 
and affectionately, as a child. He asks you to ' cast 



32 THE LOST CHILD. 

all your care upon Him,' drawn by the power of 
that blessed argument, for * He carethfor you? " 

" I. do feel as if I needed comfort," said she. 

"God only can comfort you," I replied. 

" My child was my treasure," said she. 

" Prepare to follow her to another world, Madam " 

" I wish I could. When you were speaking yes- 
terday at the funeral, your words went to my heart. 
It was so sweet to think she is happy now, and may 
be hovering near us to do us good. I could have 
heard you speaking as you did of my angel child all 
night — any length of time. It gave me the only com- 
fort I have, to think she is forever happy with God." 

" Waiting there," said I, " to welcome you into 
heaven, and rush into your arms in a little while ; 
if you will only give up the world, and, as a sinner 
to be saved, flee now to the Saviour who calls you. 
Do you mean to do so ?" Mournfully she replied : 

" I hope I shall try. The world all seems different 
to me now. I was happy ; but now, all is dark to 
me, for this world and the other ! I cannot think of 
anything but my lost child." 

" Not lost, Madam, not lost ; but gone before. Do 
not think of her as lost to you ; but think of youi 
duty to prepare to follow her." 

"I feel entirely discouraged. If I try to seek 

. God, it is in vain. My prayers are not answered. 

Everything is dark. I can think of only one thing." 



THE LOST CHILD. 33 

" My dear friend," said I, " you must not let this 
affliction be lost upon you. Turn now to God with 
all your heart. He will pity you. He will hear your 
prayers and comfort- your heart, if you will come to 
Him in faith. Do you intend to do so ?" 

" My thoughts have been directed to the subject 
of religion, but I cannot seem to have any faith. 
All is dark to me ; and now, my loss is more than I 
know how to bear." 

" You cannot bear it rightly, but by the help of 
God. ■ In Me is thy help,' says He : and you will 
find help there, if you will only seek Him with all 
your heart. He has directed your attention to the 
subject of your salvation before ; and now He has 
given you such an affecting call, that surely you 
ought to heed it. 1 hope you will. Go to Him — 
tell Him all your wants and sorrows. He is of in- 
finite love and kindness ; and you have no need to 
be discouraged. He will not let you sink." 

Yery much in this manner our conversation con- 
tinued for some time. I strove to comfort her, for I 
felt that she had a very sore trial, in which I could 
not but sympathize with her grief. She was a per- 
fect picture of woe, if not of entire despair. Her in- 
telligence too, and her frankness and simplicity, had 
deeply interested me ; and I especially strove to per- 
suade her to make a just use of her bitter affliction. 
But it was very noticeable how her mind rested upou 



34 THE LOST C.IILD. 

but one tiling. Whatever I said, she would come 
round to that. Her lost child absorbed all her 
thoughts, all her heart. If I spake of God, her mind 
would turn upon her child. If I spake of submis- 
sion, it took only a moment f tt her to get her 
thoughts turned back to her chiid. If I spake of 
her duty to improve her affliction, or of the kind- 
ness of God, or spake of Christ, or comfort, or 
prayer, or the Holy Spirit, or sin, or faith, or heav- 
en, a single expression would bring round her 
thoughts to the same melancholy theme — her lost 
child. 

I felt it to be no easy thing to deal with such a 
heart rightly. To soothe and comfort her crushed 
spirit, and at the same time to lead her to make a 
just use of her affliction, appeared almost impossible. 
If I should attempt to lead her mind off from her lost 
child, all a mother's heart would be against me. If 
I should attempt nothing more than to condole with 
her, she might indeed be soothed a little by the 
sympathy, but that soothing would not lead her to 
salvation. I strove, therefore, to find some hold 
upon her sensibilities, some link which should 
unite her sorrow and her Saviour ; which should nei- 
ther do violence to a mother's bleeding heart, nor 
peril her everlasting interests. And before I left 
her, one of her own expressions had, as I thought, 
furnished me what I desired. I resolved to em« 



THE LOST CHILD. 35 

ploy the idea afterwards — it was the idea of her 
own child now in heaven. 

Before I left her, I prayed with her, as she re- 
quested me to do, that their affliction might be sanc- 
tified to her and her husband. 

As soon as I was able, I sent an answer to the 
letter which was given to me at the funeral ; and in 
the answer I aimed to comfort and counsel my sad 
friends as well as I could. 

Pressing engagements hindered my seeing her 
again, except once for a few moments, till nearly a 
fortnight after the funeral. It was Saturday when 
I called upon her again, and found her, if possible, 
more miserable than before. In answer to my in- 
quiry, she replied : 

u I feel perfectly miserable, and there is nothing 
that can comfort me. I feel. my loss more and more 
every day." 

" I am sorry for you, my dear child. Your loss 
is indeed great, and I do not wonder at your feeling 
it. I do not blame your sorrow. I should blame 
you, if jou had none. God would have you mourn. 
Jesus wept at the grave of Lazarus, whom he loved. 
But God can comfort you, and I hope He will. The 
Holy Ghost is the Holy Comforter. Have you been 
praying to Him?" 

" Yes, I have tried ; but my thoughts are wan- 
dering. It seems to me that God will not hear such 



36 THE LOST CHILD. 

prayers as mine. My mind is all dark. I have 
tried to pray, but it does me no good." 

"What have you been praying for ?" 

" I have prayed that our affliction may be sanc- 
tified to us." 

" Do you think it will be ?" 

"I am afraid not. God does not answer me, and 
my heart appears to me to be very hard." 

"Have you any comfort in praying?" 

" No, none at all ; and I am discouraged in trying 
to seek God." 

" You need not be discouraged. If you seek Him 
with your whole heart, He will be found of you. 
He has promised that, and He will be true to his 
word." 

" But my heart is so senseless. I try to believe, 
but it seems as if I had no faith. I read the Bible, 
but it is dark to me. I try to pray, but my heart is 
not in my prayers ; and I am afraid God will never 
hear me." 

"Do you think you have been led to know and 
feel that you have a ivicked heart, and need God's 
help to make it different?" 

"I know it, but it seems to me I do not feel it at 
all ; and I wonder at myself." 

"Do you wish to feel it?" 

" Yes, I do. I have prayed to be enabled to do 
so. I know I am a sinner, and I wonder I do not 



THE LOST CHILD. 37 

realize it more. I think I never have had conviction 
enough." 

"How much conviction does a sinner need, in 
order to be prepared to come to Christ? He needs 
just to know and feel that he cannot save himself. 
If he knows he is a lost sinner, he knows all the 
truth about himself that he needs to know ; and he 
ought instantly to accept the offers of God, trusting 
Christ to save him. Do you think jou feel your 
need of the atonement that Christ has made for sin- 
ners, in order that you may be forgiven and saved ?" 

" Yes, I do. I can do nothing for myself." 

1 Well, then, let Christ do everything for you. 
Trust Him to do everything for you. He offers to 
do everything for you. Come to him just as you are, 
with all } r our sin — with all your darkness — with all 
your unworthiness — with your cold and unbelieving 
heart — and let Him give you another heart. He 
waits to receive you, and your delaying is unneces- 
sary. Your waiting to gain more distressful feel- 
ings about yourself, will not make you any better 
prepared to give up the world and trust in Him. 
Come to him now — not to be lost, but to be loved — 
not to be cast out, but to be comforted and saved. 
Come now, while the Holy Spirit strives with you." 

"I need His blessing," said she. "I feel very 
miserable. God has taken away the only child I ever 
had; and I believe He has done it to show me my 



38 THELO ST CHILD. 

sins ; but I am afraid it will be in vain to me. I 
cannot feel anything. My heart seems hardened." 

" But, my dear friend, your child is better off than 
you ; and your duty now is to prepare to meet her 
in heaven. God has spread a cloud of gloom over 
this world, to turn your heart to a better one. But 
you do not give God your heart ; you are still hesi- 
tating, fearful, and unbelieving. If you remain thus, 
all your affliction will only be lost upon you. I am 
not a little afraid it will. Do you not know that 
the instances of conversion to Christ are far less than 
the number of mourners ? — that very few persons 
are ever led to religion by such afflictions ? Afflic- 
tion goes everywhere — death goes everywhere. You 
see it all around you. 4 Who has not lost a friend ?' 
Parents die, and children die ; and yet how seldom 
it is that the bereavement profits the living. Such 
trials do Christians good; but they seldom bring 
unbelievers to true religion. You 'know this is 
true ; you see it to be so all around. And even now, 
when the only comfort you have is to think of the 
little gem you have lost, now a gem in heaven, I 
am afraid your affliction will not lead you to Christ." 

" My heart," said she, " is very hard. I am mis- 
erable ; but it seems to me I cannot feel my sins. I 
have tried to seek God, but something keeps me 
from thinking of anything but one." 

"Give God your heart just as it is, — remember 



THE LOST CHILD. 39 

just as it is, and let Him make it feel. l Turn unto 
the Lord and He will have mercy upon you, and to 
our God for He will abundantly pardon.' You must 
have faith. You must believe what He says to you. 
You must trust His promises, and fall into His arms. 
Salvation is all of grace. Do not wait for feeling. 
Have the faith first, and let the feeling come after- 
wards. Eeceive Christ as your own, affectionately, 
and as a child ; and then you may expect your hard 
heart will melt. The Holy Spirit strives to bring 
you to this. ' Now is the accepted time.' Flee to 
Christ to-day, and be prepared to follow your child 
to glory." 

As her thoughts hung constantly around her 
child, I aimed, with all my might, so to connect the 
idea of her loss with the idea of her personal obli 
gation to religion, that she should not be able to 
think of her child without thinking of her own sal- 
vation. I may not here record all my exhortations 
to her- — it would tire the reader. But I strove to 
make every recollection say to her, " Prepare to meet 
your child in heaven." I hunted her soul with that 
thought, and linked the thought with every recol- 
lection. I made it come up with every sigh, and 
burn in every tear. I associated it with the last look 
she took of her child, and with that coffin-kiss, which 
I thought would break her heart. I wrote it upon 
the little grave, and made the green grass that grows 



40 THE LOST CHILD. 

over it say to her, " Prepare to meet your child in 
heaven." The past Tittered it to her, the future ut- 
tered it. Love, hope, disappointment, grief, every 
little memorial, was made say to her, " Prepare to 
meet your child in heaven." I aimed to people the 
whole universe for her with that one thought, " Pre- 
pare to meet your child in heaven." I linked this 
thought with the morning, the evening, the bed- 
room, the books, with all this wilderness world. I 
painted to her, her lost one now bending over the 
battlements of heaven and looking down upon her, 
and saying, " Mother, Prepare to meet your child in 
heaven." I represented to her that lost child, now 
perhaps hovering around her as a " ministering 
spirit" sent forth from heaven, in some mysterious 
manner to minister for her as an " heir of salvation," 
and waiting to carry the tidings of her repentance 
on high, that there might be a new "joy in the 
presence of the angels of Grod." 

After beseeching her in this manner to fly to 
Christ, and praying for her, I took my leave, saying 
to her with solemn tenderness, — u Prepare to meet 
your child in heaven." 

The next morning I perceived that she and her 
husband were in church, and appeared very atten- 
tive to the sermon. 

It was not possible for me to call upon hei on 
Monday or Tuesday, as I had intended. Late in 



THE LOST CHILD. 41 

the evening of Tuesday, a messenger brought me 
the following letter : 

"Dr. Spencer, 

Kev. Sir : — I have taken the liberty of address- 
ing a few lines to you. Allow me, in the first place, 
to thank you for your kindness and sympathy towards 
us, strangers as we were to you. I shall never for- 
get your consoling words ; they fell like balm upon 
a bruised and broken heart. The light and the joy 
of our home was taken ; but the fond hope which 
your words inspired, that our dear child 4 might be 
hovering over us, missioned from heaven in some 
mysterious manner to minister to our spirits,' seemed 
to animate and encourage me not to be weary in well 
doing. When I saw you on Saturday, I felt that I 
was still far from God. I had no heart to read the 
Bible, no heart to pray. I was overwhelmed with 
grief; my child was gone, and what had I to live 
for? It seemed that one thought had taken the 
place of every other ; but I still continued to pray, 
although my lips uttered words which I thought my 
heart did not feel. On Sabbath morning, before 
entering the church, I prayed that God would bless 
to me the words that I might hear spoken. ' Faith 
and grace' — (alluding to the sermon) — "it was just 
what I most needed ; but the door of my heart waa 
closed, and they could not enter in. After dinner, 



42 THE LOST CHILD. 

I took up a book, and one piece that I read, ; Wait- 
ing for Conviction/ made me feel that I was stand- 
ing in just that position. I had been relying upon 
my own self-righteousness, waiting for something, I 
knew not what. I felt as if you were talking to me ; 
every word came home to my heart. I went to my 
room and prayed, as I had never prayed before, — 
4 God be merciful to me a sinner.' I was a good deal 
cast down, and it seemed to me as if I must not retire 
to rest that night, until I had made my peace with 
God. I passed a restless, weary night ; the words kept 
sounding in my ears, ■ Prepare to meet your child 
in heaven.' I could but cry, Lord have mercy! 
When I awoke near morning, after a short and rest- 
less sleep, I felt as if the work must be accomplished 
before another day passed over. During the day, I 
felt better, had some comfort in reading the Bible, 
felt that God had answered my prayers, unworthy 
as they were. He had convicted me of my sin ; and 
I seemed to have more faith, but still unbelief held 
its sway. I prayed earnestly for more faith and 
grace ; and as I sat alone in my room, the twilight 
hour, I thought over all of my past life. I had done 
nothing for God, and He had done everything for 
me. He had given me a most precious gift, and I 
had never once thanked the Giver, but went on in 
my own pride and self love, building fond hope and 
joy for the far-off future ; and in a little time she 



THE LOST CHILD. 43 

was stricken from my sight. It appeared to me that 
God had taken that means to bring the parents to 
repentance ; and I felt that it was but right and just. 
While I thus sat holding communion with my own 
thoughts, recalling the blessed promises of the Bible, 
all at once such light, and love, and hope, shone into 
my heart, it seemed as if I must clap my hands and 
sing aloud a new song : 

" His loving kindness — oh, how great !" 

" I could kiss the hand that had smitten. The 
heavy load of sin is gone. Will you, dear sir, be kind 
enough to call and see me to-morrow. I have no 
words to thank you for your kindness. I am as a 
little child just entering upon a new world, and I am 
afraid my feelings will not last." 

•Jfr X X X 

In accordance with the request contained in this 
letter, I called upon her the next morning. She 
met me with a smile of gladness. Her downcast 
look was gone — not a trace left of that deep and set- 
tled melancholy, which had formerly rested upon her 
countenance and made her such an image of wo. 
Her joy and peace seemed to have transformed her 
into another being. She was perfectly happy. 
Peace filled her heart, and her countenance was 
lighted up with the signals of an ecstasy which she 
could neither repress nor conceal She was solemn, 



44 THE LOST CHILD. 

but "her joy was full." Smiles of peace unbidden 
would spread, like a beam of light, over her features ; 
her step, her mien, the whole woman was changed. 

" I wanted to see you," said she (with a look and 
in an accent of rapture), " I want to tell you how 
happy I am. I can bless God now. He has been 
very gracious to me, and I can praise Him for all 
He has done. I can see His goodness in all my afflic- 
tion. I thought, yesterday, I must go and see you 
and have you rejoice with me." 

" "What makes you so happy ?" said I. 

" Because God has heard my prayers, and removed 
my dreadful burden of sin, and given me peace with 
Himself. I know it is not anything that / have 
done — it is the mercy and grace of God. He has 
heard me, and given me faith and love : I cannot be 
grateful enough." 

"Do you think you have faith now ?" 

" Oh, yes, I have faith. I believe and trust Him, 
for He has shown me the way, and brought me to 
this delightful peace. I was very wretched, and 
could not feel reconciled ; but now I see the hand 
of His kindness in it all. I see the leading of His 
Providence all along, in sending us here and direct- 
ing us to you. I cannot be thankful enough. I feel 
very grateful to you for your kindness to us in our 
affliction. I was afraid to have you come when my 
child died. You were a stranger to us, and I did 



THE LOST CHILD. 45 

not know as you could enter into our feelings ; but 
when I heard you speak at the funeral, my feara 
vanished and when you came afterwards and talked 
to me, I thought God had sent us here, and taken 
away our child, on purpose to have us led to repent- 
ance. I thank you for all you have done." 

" Do you love God now ?" 

" Oh, yes, I do. I cannot thank Him enough. I 
can submit to His will now, though my loss is so 
great. I see He meant it for my good." 

1 'Does your heart rest on Christ alone to save 
you?" 

" Yes, I trust Him entirely. I have nothing else 
to trust in. I know I am a great sinner ; but He 
has heard me, and answered me. He has set my 
heart at rest." 

"Have you this peace of mind and joy in God, 
all the time ?" 

" Sometimes, I am afraid I am deceived for a 
little while ; but the most of the time I am very 
happy. At first, I felt as if I could not restrain my 
feelings. I did not want to come down to tea : I 
was afraid they w^ould think me crazy, for I knew I 
could not conceal my joy, my looks would betray me, 
and I was afraid I should lose my happy feelings. 

"I want you to see my young friend. I want 
you to tell her that she has only to come to Christ, 
that she l need not wait to get ready' as you told me 



46 THE LOST CHILD. 

on Saturday. It all seems to me so easy now — only 
to come to God in faith — not wait to get ready. I 
wonder people do not see it. I wonder that I did 
not see it before. But I had not faith. Now I can 
see the way all clear ; and this light and peace with 
God make me very happy. I feel my loss and can- 
not but weep ; but I know God has done it for my 
good, and I am resigned and happy. I thank and 
praise Him for his kindness." 

" Have you any doubts or fears to trouble you?" 

" Yes, I have at times, for a little while ; but when 
I go to God in prayer, my joy returns. Sometimes, 
I am afraid my feelings are not the right ones, and 
that I am deceived. I know my heart is deceitful ; 
but I trust in God, and then I am happy. I feel as 
if I was a little child, and want to be led. I have 
only just begun to learn. I know but very little, 
and I am afraid these joyful feelings will not last. 
God has afflicted me, but now He comforts me." 

" You recollect I told you on Saturday that such 
afflictions were very seldom of any benefit to unbe- 
lievers." 

" I know you did, and it made me feel very sad." 

11 But you know it is true," said I. 

" Oh yes, I know it is true, a great many have lost 
children, and never came to repentance ; and that 
made me feel the more anxious to improve the time." 

Again and again, when I saw her, she conversed 



THE LOST CHILD. 47 

in the same happy strain, affectionate, grateful, and 
simple-hearted as a child. She was peculiarly de- 
sirous that other members of her family should have 
the same faith and peace of mind which made her 
so happy. She told them how she felt, with an ear- 
nestness, affection, and simplicity which could not 
be surpassed, and with the manifest impression fixed 
upon her mind that salvation was freely offered to 
them, and they had nothing to do but to believe it 
and accept the offer. 

As I was talking with her at one time, in the pres- 
ence of a young woman in whom she felt a deep 
interest, and to whom she had done me the favor to 
introduce me, I thought many of her expressions 
must reach the young woman's heart. I asked her, 

" Do you still feel the same happiness that you 
have had ? " 

"Oh, jeSj most of the time. Sometimes I have 
a little darkness, but it soon passes away and my 
happy feelings return. God answers my prayers. 
I go to him for everything. I have just begun. I 
am a little child, and want to be led all the time. I 
want some one to teach me whether my feelings are 
right. But I feel very happy." 

Said I, " I wish to ask you one question. You 
have given some attention to the subject of religion 
before this time. It has often been on your mind, 
and you have tried to seek the Lord. And after 



48 THE LOST CHILD. 

your child died, you were for some time in great 
distress and darkness. Now I wish to ask you this 
question : What kept you so long in darkness — what 
hindered you that you did not come to Christ sooner ?" 

" Oh," said she, " I vi&s self-righteous: I did not have 
faith : I was trying to do something for myself, to get 
ready to trust in God." 

The eyes of the young woman filled with tears, 
her breast heaved with emotion, and I could not 
but hope that the truth, which I had elicited from 
the lips of her happy friend, would lead her to a hap- 
piness as precious. At least, she was taught, that 
she need not " wait to get ready" 

Notwithstanding the severity of her affliction, this 
bereaved mother was uniformly happy. She seemed 
to live on high. In prayerful communion with 
God and in contemplation of heaven, she spent her 
days in peace. She could not forget her child, and 
she could not cease to mourn ; but her grief for her 
loss was mingled with joy in God, and many times 
have I seen tears and smiles blended together on 
her expressive countenance. She was a most affec- 
tionate mother. She loved deeply and tenderly. 
Her peace of mind, her submission and joy, were not 
in the least the results of a stupid or a stoical heart ; 
but they were the gift of Gocl, and in the exercise of 
them she was no less tender and affectionate as a 
Christian than she was as a mourning mother. 



THE LOST CHILD. 49 

Her deep and tender solicitude for her irreligious 
friends was a most interesting feature in her charac- 
ter. From the commencement of her seriousness, I 
had aimed to awaken in her heart an interest in the 
salvation of others. Several of her " nearest and 
dearest friends" were, as she said, still in unbelief. 
From the first, she manifested much interest in their 
eternal welfare ; but before the time when she came 
to her own sweet hope in Christ, her thoughts seemed 
to be called back from them to herself, and she 
found an almost insuperable obstacle in her way, 
whenever she attempted anything for them, even in 
prayer. Her thoughts were drawn back, and her 
feelings were borne down by the sadness and gloom 
of her own mind. But after she came out of that 
gloom, her heart turned to the subject of their salva- 
tion with much tenderness and strength of affection. 
She was not only willing, but prompt and joyful to 
second any of my attempts to bring them to Christ. 

A few weeks after she began to find Christ her 
refuge, she expressed some of her reflections in the 
following letter : 

14 Dr. Spencer, 

Eev. Sir : — I will intrude upon your time but for 
a few moments. "W e nave been looking for a visit 
from you for some days. It has been so pleasant to 
have you come in and see us, that it really seems as 

3 



50 THELOSTCHILD. 

if you had almost forgotten us. I shall ever hold 
in grateful remembrance your kindness to me ; and 
those consoling words which feel like balm upon my 
bruised and sorrowful heart, will never be forgotten. 
They were the first words that made me feel deeply ; 
and through God I feel that you have been the in- 
strument of opening my eyes — ' whereas I was once 
blind, but now I see.' Oh, how beautiful is the 
plan of salvation! to be redeemed, to be bought 
with the price of a Saviour's blood, to be justified, 
adopted, and sanctified ! to call God our Father ! and 
when our hearts go forth to Him in prayer, to feel 
that He is so near to us ! Oh, that I may be wholly 
His! My earnest desire is to be a whole-souled 
Christian, not a half undecided one. When I look 
at my poor sinful heart, so prone to wander, so vile, 
and so full of sin, I almost despair, sometimes, of ever 
attaining the only worthy end for which to live ; but 
with God all things are possible, and I can but pray 
to be purified- — ' wash me, and I shall be whiter than 
snow. 7 I have spent many calm and peaceful hours 
in my retirement, communing with my own thoughts 
and with God, thinking of my angel child as she 
walks the golden streets of the New Jerusalem. 
Hers was a bright and joyous spirit on earth, and 
how much more bright and beautiful there. Heaven 
does not seem so far off as it once did. 

" I often ask myself when the time comes for me 



THE L OST CHILD. 51 

to mingle again with, the world, if my heart will be 
as near to God as it is now. I hope that He will 
ever guide me. I must watch and pray. Prayer 
and the precious Bible must be my refuge. How 
beautifully the hymn, 

' Jesus lover of my soul,' 

warms the heart, and makes it feel indeed, that 

1 Thou, Oh Christ, art all I want, 
All in all in thee I find.' 

God has supported and directed me. He seems 
to know just what I most need. 

* * . * , . - ; # * 

"But it seems to me that I know too little of 
divine truth. I want to be fed with the bread of 
life, to drink deeper from the fountains of living 
waters. My health has been such that I have not 
been able to attend divine service, and I thirst for 
more knowledge of the Bible. 

" ' How beautiful are the feet of him that bringeth 
good tidings ; that publisheth salvation.' I know, 
my dear sir, that you have often been made very 
happy, and have felt doubly paid for all the toil and 
trouble, when sinners have come to you with faith 
and joy beaming in their countenance, and told you 
that they had found their God. My request, there- 



52 THE LOST CHILD. 

fore, will not afflict you, though it should add to 
your labors. 

"I know your time is much occupied, and you 

will please pardon my intrusion upon you." 

* * * * 

I visited her often. It was delightful to witness 
her joy. She seemed to live in the sunshine of peace. 
Seldom were her skies overcast ; and when a cloud 
did darken her heavens, it was only for a moment, and 
only served to make the returning light more sweet. 

"I have sometimes a little darkness," said she. 

II And what do you do then ?" 

" Oh, I pray to God, and the light returns." 

"Do you love to pray?" 

" Oh, yes, I always love to pray. It seems to me 
such a precious privilege. Whenever I am sad, 
thinking of my child, or my mind is downcast, I 
find that when I pray, God answers me and I am 
comforted. I just go to Him with my trouble. It 
is a precious privilege." 

" Have you ever any doubt whether God has given 
you a new heart?" 

"At times I have, for a little while. But the 
most of the time I cannot doubt ; I have such sweet 
peace in thinking of God, Christ is so precious to 
me, and all my feelings are so different from what 
they used to be. I know I am still a sinner. I sin 



THE LOST CHILD. - 53 

every hour ; and I know my heart is deceitful ; but 
I trust in Christ, and God comforts me with hope." 

Such were her feelings week after week. Her 
joy was full. Her faith appeared to grow stronger, 
and while her humility became more deep, the ten- 
derness of her love and her confiding became more 
and more peaceful. 

When our communion season came, she did not 
unite with the church. She thought it best to defer 
the public profession of her faith for a time. But 
she was present at the administration of the ordi- 
nance of the Lord's Supper. A day or two after- 
wards I called upon her, and she adverted to it with 
a very manifest delight. 

Said she, " I had a happy day last Sunday. When 
I saw those young persons come forward to unite 
with the church, I longed to be with them. I 
thought it would be such a privilege, to confess my 
faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and aim to honor 
Him before so many people. And when the mem- 
bers of the church were partaking of the bread and 
wine, they all appeared so solemn and happy, I won- 
dered that anybody could stay away. It was the 
happiest day I ever saw. I thought the Lord was 
there to comfort his people. It seemed to me that 
they had the peace of heaven ; and I hoped the time 
would come, when I should myself be with that 
great company and partake of their joy." 



54 THE LOST CHILD. 

" Such occasions," said I, " have been profitable 
seasons to us." 

" Oh, I think they must be," said she. " Though I 
was only a spectator, I felt it was good for me to be 
there ; and I did not wonder, when you said, that 
you scarcely recollected a communion season, when 
there was not at least some one sinner awakened to 
seek the Lord. It seems to me, that nobody could 
have witnessed the exercises of last Sunday un- 
moved. I should think that every spectator would 
be convinced of the presence of Christ, and the hap- 
piness of communion with him. I look forward 
with delight to the time when I shall come myself 
to that solemn spot, and give away myself to our 
Lord Jesus Christ." 

In due time, she did come. Years have since 
rolled away, and she still lives a happy believer — 
one of the few, whom bereavement has called out 
of the world's allurements, and aided towards Christ 
and heaven. 

If this publication should ever meet her eye, I 
am aware it may open afresh the fountains of her 
grief, and that is the only idea which makes me 
hesitate about giving this narrative to the world. 
But I am sure she will know that it is not in my heart 
to afflict her, by exposing to the world the sacred- 
ness of her sorrow, or by recalling to her mind a scene 
which grief burnt upon her memory ; and I am sure 



THE LOST CHILD. 55 

she will pardon me the liberty I have taken, when 
she shares with me the hope, that some mourning 
mother will be led to Christ by this narrative of THE 
lost child — not lost, but gone before. 

'Twas a gem fit for love, 'twas the gift of her God, 

But no thanks did the gift e'er excite ; 
Death snatched it away — she sunk under the rod ! 

All her world was a chaos of night ! 

Then there whispered a voice from the land of the blest, 

Oh my Mother, my Mother ! on high 
I wait to receive thee to this land of sweet rest — 

Oh my Mother, prepare thee to die. 

I'm not in the dark coffin, Christ spread his arms round me, 

I awoke 'mid this light and this love, 
Where the bright beams of heaven spread their glory around me, 

For /died to allure thee above. 

She heard it ; she felt that attraction of heaven, — 

It was peace : she can now kiss the rod ; 
She flew to her Christ — she's a sinner forgiven: — 

They shall meet in the bosom of God. 

This is one of the few instances that have come 
within my own knowledge, wherein the sorrows of 
mourning have been of any lasting spiritual benefit 
to an unbeliever. To God's people bereavements 
and sorrows are sanctified. This is general, if not 
universal. Our observation can behold it, and we 
often hear the testimony from their own lips. But 
to the ' children of this world,' their days of mourn- 
ing are very much in vain. They can bury their 



56 THE LOST CHILD. 

friends, and with, a depth and tenderness and bitter- 
ness of mourning weep over their loss ; but in a few 
brief days their hearts turn back again upon the 
world, and they go on as carelessly and gaily as 
before. The place of the funeral is a very hopeless 
place for preaching the gospel to unbelievers. I 
recollect but two instances before this, in a ministry 
of more than twenty years, in which anything that 
I ever said at a funeral has been the means of arous- 
ing and leading to Christ a single impenitent sinner. 
The hope which irreligious persons so frequently 
indulge, that some future affliction, when it shall 
come, the loss of some loved and valued friend, will 
lead them to religion, is almost universally a hope 
of entire vanity and deception. They do not know 
their own hearts. Both observation and experience 
prove such a hope to be delusive. Bleeding hearts 
are not necessarily penitent ones. Among hundreds 
whom I have heard, at the time of their reception 
into the church, giving an account of the manner in 
which they had been led to religion, I recollect only 
ttvoj who mentioned the death of a friend as the 
means of leading them to seek God. The member 
of a family dies, but the survivors do not become 
pious. Indeed, so common is this — such an ordinary 
historical fact, that scarcely a man among us can 
point to a single instance, where the doings of death 
and the effectual workings of the Holy Spirit to con- 



THE LOST CHILD. 57 

vert to Christ, have gone side by side. Indeed, 
unbelieving hearts crushed with a burden of sorrow 
in the dark and dreadful days of mourning, are more 
apt to be injured than benefited, by the bitterness 
of their sad experience. 

I knew of a woman, many years since, whose at- 
tention had been earnestly directed to the subject 
of religion, and who, for some weeks, had been 
prayerfully attempting to seek the Lord ; when she 
was suddenly summoned to the death-bed of one of 
her children in a neighboring state. She came home 
from the funeral of that child ; and immediately after 
her return, several other relatives of her own family 
were brought, disfigured corpses, to her house, hav- 
ing been killed by the explosion of the boiler on a 
steamboat. No one could have been more shocked, 
or more deeply plunged into anguish than was she. 
" Now," says she (referring to her loss, a day or two 
afterwards), " I give up the world ; it is nothing to me 
any longer." But when, by the lapse of time, her 
grief had somewhat lost its poignancy, her serious- 
ness was all gone. Her grief had dissipated her re- 
ligious anxietj^; she had forgotten the subjsct of her 
salvation ; and relapsing into her former indifference, 
she went on for months and months in her irreligion 
and prayerlessness, as unconcerned as ever. 

Such things appear strange and wonderful to 
many people At the first thought, probably, such 



58 THE LOST CHILD. 

a thing appears wonderful to everybody. But I 
think it is a thing susceptible of a very intelligible 
explanation. Sorrow leads the mind one way, and 
seriousness about salvation leads it quite another. 
Grief for a lost friend is one thing, and grief on ao 
count of sin is quite another thing. When a sinner 
is seeking salvation, his thoughts are turned upon 
his sins, his soul, his eternity, his God and Saviour ; 
but when he is overwhelmed with personal affliction 
and sorrow, his thoughts are turned upon his loss. 
Then, it is not his sin that troubles him,- — no, he is 
just thinking of his loved-one dead, his child, his 
sister, or his father taken from him, and now buried 
in the deep, dark grave. His mind is now called 
off from the state, the guilt, and clanger of his own 
immortal soul, from his need of Christ to save him, 
and of the Holy Spirit to 'renew a right spirit 
within him.' Whatever it may be, that leads him 
to forget his sins, does him an injury. Any diver- 
sion of his thoughts to a new channel, does him an 
injury. The channel may be more dark — more dis- 
tressful — more dreadful to him; but his attention 
has become diverted to a new object, and that ' one 
•thing needful' is at present crowded away into the 
back-ground of his contemplations, or forgotten en- 
tirely. And hence, the deeper his sorrow, the more 
dangerous its influence becomes. His affliction just 
makes him forget his sins, and his soul. 



THE LOST CHILD. 59 

And thus it is, as I suppose, that we behold, all 
over the world, the mourning of unbelievers so 
generally unattended or followed by any religious 
benefits. Their thoughts are on their loss — their 
earthly loss. The death of their friend has spread 
a glooom over the world. Their house lacks an 
inmate, — their heart lacks a friend to lean upon, 
along the pilgrimage of life. Another star has gone 
out, and left a dark spot in their heavens, which 
once appeared so bright and beautiful to their eye. 
A seat is left vacant at the lire-side, — a friend is 
absent from the table, — a familiar voice is missed in 
the family-circle. But all these are earthly griefs. 
They are not spiritual ones to an unbeliever. The 
mourning unbeliever never much prized his now 
lost friend, as an aid to his holiness and salvation ; 
— he prized him only for earthly reasons. He never 
loved the lost one as a companion to go hand in 
hand with him to Jerusalem, or along the vales of 
Palestine, amid the fragrance and beauty of 'the 
rose of Sharon and lily of the valley.' He never 
loved his companionship, because his lips were 
vocal with the melody of ' another country, even an 
heavenly,' which he hoped to reach; — but simply 
because his companionship made earth more pleas- 
ant, not heaven more near. And, therefore, when 
death has snatched away this now lost companion, 
only an earthly sorrow takes possession of the 



60 THE LOST CHILD. 

heart, just that ' sorrow of the world which work* 
eth death.' And when he turns away from the 
grave of his buried friend, or, in the dark days that 
follow, thinks of him so mournfully, the whole effect 
of his sorrow is just to make the world more dreary ; 
not the world to come, more gladsome and inviting. 
If he had lived with his friend as a Christian, it 
would have been very different with him now, when 
his friend is no more ; and the death he deplores 
would have made his thoughts hang more fondly 
around the religious things, in which he and his 
friend used to aid and comfort one another. But he 
did not ; — he was an unbeliever (himself, whatever 
his lost friend may have been) ; and, therefore, the 
death which has saddened him, just confines his 
thoughts to this dark and dreary world, instead of 
leading them towards the world of immortality. 

God is infinitely willing to sanctify to men their 
sorrows, and bring the beams of gladness over the 
dark days of their mourning. But men misuse 
their times of sorrow. The sad history of thou- 
sands of hearts that have bled, demonstrates but too 
plainly this melancholy truth, — our piety seldom 
springs from the grave that our tears have ^ atered. 



Cjif ^tormii itig|t: 

OR, PERSEVERANCE. 

The most remarkable instance of protracted and 
determined perseverance in seeking God, that lias 
ever come within my knowledge, was that of a 
young married woman, whose seriousness commenc- 
ed soon after I visited her at her own house, for the 
first time. The conversation that I then had with 
her, as she afterwards told me, "led her to make up 
her mind that she would seek the Lord, and would 
not stop, till she believed her salvation was secure." 
The one consideration, and so far as I could ever 
ascertain, the only one, which had any special in- 
fluence to lead her to form this resolution and begin 
to act upon it, was taken from the assurance I gave 
her in my first conversation with her, that salvation 
was within her reach, — that she might be a Chris- 
tian if she would, — that she would not seek the 
Lord in vain, if she only sought Him with all her 
heart. " You told me, sir," said she to me, years 
afterwards, " I should not seek God in vain. Your 
words were (I remember it well and always shall), 



62 THE STORMY NIGHT. 

1 1 know, Mrs. E , that you will be saved, if you 

seek God with, all your heart.' " 

She tried to do so. She came to my house for 
conversation with me about her salvation, almost 
every Sabbath evening for nearly two years. In 
the depth of winter, on a cold, stormy night, the 
wind blowing violently, the snow drifting into the 
path, in places more than two feet in depth (as I 
found on accompanying her home), — one of the most 
unpleasant and even terrific nights for a woman to 
be abroad ; she came nearly half a mile to my 
house, alone. As I opened the door for her admis- 
sion that stormy night, I uttered an expression of 

surprise, "why, Mrs. E ! are you here on such 

a night ?" And I shall never forget the severe, de- 
served rebuke, which she unwittingly gave me, many 
months afterwards, in reference to that expression. 
" It stumbled me," says she ; " I did not know what 
to make of it. You had invited us there, and I 
thought you would be expecting me. I thought 
you ought not to be surprised to see me there, if 
sinners were in danger of the everlasting wrath of 
God and might escape it, as you had preached that 
day. It was a long time before I could get over 
that stumbling-block. I thought, if you had believed 
what you preached, and felt about it as I did, you 
would expect to see me. I know it was a stormy 
night and T was afraid ; but I kept thinking as I 



THE STORMY NIGHT. tJ3 

went, that the clay of judgment would bring a 
worse storm, as you said once in your sermon — 
4 hail-stones and coals of fire.' " This she said to 
me more than a year afterwards, and after she had 
attained hope in the mercy of God through Christ 
Jesus. 

At the same time, she told me another thing, 
which added keenness to her unintentional rebuke. 
She said, that her husband (at this time an irreli- 
gious man), was very unwilling that she should ven- 
ture out on that stormy night, and strongly urged 
her to stay at home, when he found she proposed 
to go. " But," says she, " he told me afterwards 
that my going to your house that night, w r as the 
first thing, which brought him to reflection ; for he 
thought there must be something about sin and re- 
ligion which he did not know anything about, if I 
would go to your house in such a storm, all alone. 
I did not know it at that time ; but when he told 
me afterwards, 1 remembered that he looked very 
cross when I came home, and I thought he was angry 
because I went. But I was not going to mind that 
I knew I had done rightly, and I was not going to 
let anything turn me aside from trying to be a Chris- 
tian. And don't you remember, three Sunday 
nights after that, he came to your house with me ?" 

Month after month, this woman's deep anxiety 
continued I never could discover why she lingered 



64 THE STORMY NIGHT. 

so long in her unbelief. Again and again, I aimed 
with all possible carefulness to tell her all the truths 
of the gospel, and to discover what error, sin or temp- 
tation, kept her from repentance and peace with God, 
Bat I never could discover her hindrance: and she 
never could tell me, then or afterwards, of any diffi- 
culty or temptation, which had troubled her, except 
the expression I made to her on that stormy night. 
And in justice to her I ought to say, that she did 
not mention that as having been a hindrance, though 
she called it a stumbling-block; but mentioned it 
casually and in another connection — not to find fault 
with me, and not to account for her continuing so 
long in unbelief. Far from this. She was one of 
the most modest of women, and one of the most 
affectionate and devoted friends I ever had. Noth- 
ing, I am sure, could ever have tempted her to find 
fault with me, or utter a syllable with any intent 
to censure me or wound my feelings. Before 
that memorable night of storms, when her presence 
surprised me. she had been for months an anxioos 
inquirer. 

It was a most painful and perplexing thing to dis- 
charge my pastoral duty to this woman. I could 
not understand her state of mind. She was frank, 
she concealed nothing, she told me all her heart, she 
was desirous of being interrogated. She was, more- 
over, an intelligent, well-educated woman, and 



THE STORMY NIGHT. 65 

trained in early life by religious parents. But I 
could not even conjecture what kept her in her un- 
belief, since, for so long a time, she had known the 
truth, and had such powerful strivings of the Holy 
Spirit. And what then could I say to her? how 
could I hope to do her any good ? 

She came to me so many times, and I had so many 
times told her all that I knew about the way of sal- 
vation, and so many times presented to her every 
motive of the gospel, and invited and urged her to 
cast herself upon Christ, that I did not know what 
more to say or do ; and time after time I was half 
sorry to see her come into my house, and then 
ashamed of myself because my heart had such a 
feeling. I knew not what to do. At one time I 
was on the point of telling her that I had nothing 
more to say to her, and she need not come to me 
again. But I could not do it. She was so miserable, 
so sincere, so determined, docile, and confiding, that 
it was impossible for me to cast her off. I afterwards 
rejoiced that I had not done it. Her husband be- 
came pious, her sister, and others of her friends, al] 
of whom began to seek God after she did ; and yet, 
there she stood, the same unhappy, unconverted 
sinner. She did not advance, and she did not go back. 
Time after time I assured her that her lingering was 
unnecessary, and would gain her nothing, — that she 
had but to trust herself to the arms of Christ out- 



66 THE STORMY NIGHT. 

stretched to receive her, — that ' without faith it was 
impossible for her to please Grod,' or gain an item 
of profit to her own soul. A hundred times I cau- 
tioned her most solemnly against putting any trust 
in her perseverance, for that she was persevering in 
the wrong course while in her unbelief, and the 
farther she went, the worse would be her condition. 
Time after time, the Bible in my hand, and she in 
tears before me, as a minister of Grod, and on his 
authority, I offered her a free salvation, and de- 
manded her heart's faith, and instant submission to 
divine authority and unbounded love. Her mind, 
her conscience, her heart, I besieged with all the 
kindness of Christ. I explained to her such pas- 
sages of the Scriptures as 'the marriage which a 
certain king made for his son,' — and 'the prodigal,' 
who, in a far country, l began to be in want.' All 
would not do. 

As far as I could discover, she had for many 
weary months a full conviction of all the great doc- 
trines of the Bible, of the entire depravity of her 
heart, of her sin and danger under the law as a 
condemned sinner, of the impossibility of her salva- 
tion but by Christ, and of the full and free salvation 
offered to her in the love of God, on the ground of 
the great atonement. I have never spent half as 
much time with any other awakened sinner, or. 
uttered to any other one half as many threatenings 



THE STORMY NIGHT, G7 

and promises of God, or kneeled with any other 
half as many times in prayer. But so far as I know, 
she never received anv benefit from it all, unless 
that was a benefit which she one day suggested to 
me long afterwards, when she said, " if you had been 
discouraged with me, / should have been discour- 
aged, — and should have given up trying to be saved." 
She persevered. She became a child of hope and 
peace. She united herself with the people of God.; 
and now, after more than thirteen years, she still 
lives in the enjoyment of Christian hope. Neither 
she nor I, — yea, nor her husband, will ever forget 
that stormy night. 

Ministers ought never to despair of the salvation 
of any sinner. To despair of any one, is just the 
way to make him despair of himself. Many have 
been ruined in this way probably. We ought to 
expect sinners to repent, — and treat them accord- 
ingly. Who shall limit the Holy One of Israel? 
It took me long to learn the lesson, but I have 
learnt never to give up a sinner. We must urge the 
duty of an immediate faith and repentance, as the 
Bible does so continually ; but we should be careful 
to enjoin this duty in such a manner, that if it is not 
immediately done, the individual shall not be led or 
left to cease seeking God. Many a sinner turns 
back, when just at the door of heaven. 



e Cfpin: 

HOLD ON OR LET GO 

. Many months after the foregoing sketch was all 
written, together with the reflections I have made 
upon it as they are printed above, I had an oppor- 
tunity for conversation with my persevering friend, 
and I made another attempt to learn, (as I had some- 
times tried to learn before,) what it was that kept 
her in her unbelief for so long a time, in those dark 
days of her wearisome perseverance. 

"You have asked me that," said she, "more than 
once before, and I never could tell you. I have 
often thought of it, but it always seemed mysterious 
to me. I believed the Spirit had led me, but I did 
not know how. But awhile ago, in one of 
my backslidings, I thought I found out something 
about it." 

"Well, how was it?" 

" I was in a cold state," said she ; "I had lost all 
the little light I ever had. I knew I had done 
wrong. I had too much neglected prayer, my heart 
had become worldly, and for a good many weeks I 



THE CHOICE. 69 

was in trouble and fear, for I knew I had wandered 
far from God. Then I thought I felt just as I used 
to. before I had any hope, when I was coming to 
your house so much. And then I tried to recollect 
what I did to come to the light at that time, so as to 
do the same thing now. But I couldn't remember 
anything about it. However, while I was trying, 
one thing came to my mind which did me some 
good. You know your sermon that you preached 
just before I came to have any hope, — I don't 
remember the text, — but it was about wandering 
sinners lost on the mountains." 

u No, indeed, madam, I have no recollection 
of it." 

11 Well, I can't tell you what it was ; I can't 
repeat it ; may be I can tell enough to make you 
remember. I know you represented us in that ser- 
mon as lost sinners, lost in the woods, wandering 
over mountain after mountain, in dark and danger- 
ous places among the rocks and precipices, not 
knowing where we were going. It grew darker 
and darker, — we were groping along, sometimes on 
the brink of a dreadful precipice, and didn't know 
it. Then some of us began to fall down the steep 
mountains, and thought we should be dashed to 
pieces. (I know /thought so.) But we caught hold 
of the bushes to hold ourselves up by them ; —some 
bushes would give way, and then we would catch 



10 THE CHOICE. 

others, and hold on till they gave way, broke, or 
tore up by the roots, and then we would catch 
others, and others. — Don't yon remember it, sir ?" 

" Partly. But go on." 

" Well, you said our friends were calling to us, as 
we hung by the bushes on the brink, and we called 
to one another, l hold on — hold on? Then, you said 
this cry, 'hold on — hold on, 1 might be a very natural 
one for anybody to make, if he should see a poor 
creature hanging over the edge of a precipice, cling- 
ing to a little bush with all his might, — if the man 
didn't see anything else. But you said there was 
another thing to be seen, which these • hold on 1 people 
didn't seem to know anything about. You said the 
Lord Jesus Christ was down at the bottom of the 
precipice, lifting up both hands to catch us, if we 
would consent to fall into his arms, and was crying 
out to us, ' let gen—let go — let go J Up above, all 
around where we were, you said they were crying 
out 'hold on — hold on? Down below, you said, 
Jesus Christ kept crying out, ' let go — let go ;' and 
if we only knew who he was, and would let go of 
the bushes of sin and self-righteousness, and fall into 
the arms of Christ, we should be saved. And you 
said we had better stop our noise, and listen, and 
hear his voice, and take his advice, — and ' let goJ " 

u Don't you recollect that sermon, sir ?" 

"Yes, only you have preached it better than I did." 



THE CHOICE. 1\ 

" Well, when I remembered that sermon last 
spring, in my dark, back-slidden state, I tried to 
obey it. I ' let go' of everything, and trusted myself 
to Christ ; and in a little while, my heart was com- 
forted, — my hope came back again. And after- 
wards, when I was wondering at it, I thought, 
perhaps it was just so when you preached that 
sermon a great while ago, when I was first led to 
have a hope of salvation. But I never thought of 
it before; I don't know how I found peace and 
hope the first time, if this was not the way. I sup- 
pose we have to make our choice whether to ' hold 
on' to something which can't save us, or 'let go,' 
and fall into the hands of the LordP 

The efforts of a legal spirit are directly the oppo- 
site of an evangelical faith. By nature every sinner 
resorts to the Law. It cannot save him. He must 
let go of that, and fall into the arms of Christ. Faith 
eaves, and Jesus Christ is the sole object of faith. 



Cfje %tiltitti Siblt. 

In the month of February, 18 — , I called at the 
house of a family, which I had several times visited 
before. I knew them well, and my purpose was to 
make another attempt to do them good. They were 
very poor, their home was very uncomfortable, 
their apparel dirty and ragged, and what was most 
mournful of all, these evils were manifestly occa- 
sioned by intemperance. The husband and father 
was an intemperate man, as all his acquaintance 
knew, and as anybody would know by the sight of 
him ; and the wife and mother was an intemperate 
woman, as I was frequently told, and as her appear- 
ance but too plainly indicated. Such they had been 
for more than a score of years. They had several 
small children, who were miserably clothed and 
repulsively dirty, appearing to be little cared for by 
either father or mother. They had one daughter, 
the eldest of their children, a very worthy girl, of 
about eighteen years, who was a seamstress, sup- 
porting herself in a very respectable manner, and 
moving in respectable society. But she seldom or 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 73 

never went home. She had left her parents I ecause 
she could not live with them any longer. She once 
told me, that she could not endure the pain of seeing 
her father, and especially her mother, in such a con- 
dition as they were ; and when she had sometimes 
gone home to see them after she left them, they only 
complained of her, and reproached her for her pride, 
because she had dressed herself in a decent manner, 
and because she would not consent to board at home 
any longer. Her mother had once requested me to 
induce her to return to them ; but after learning 
all the circumstances, and hearing the daughter's 
touching story from her own lips, I had no heart to 
do it, — I could not attempt it, — I told the poor girl, 
that in my opinion she was right in staying away. 
She could do them no good. She had tried it. She 
was only reproached if she called upon them. The 
treatment she received made her the more unhappy ; 
and she once told me with bitter weeping, that if 
she went there at all, she " came away with such a 
feeling of shame, that it made her wretched for a 
month." It was a very delicate thing for me, and 
a very painful one, to mention the subject to her at 
all ; but I trust I was enabled to do it in such a 
manner as to wound her, feelings but little, and to 
gain her respect and confidence entirely. She cer- 
tainly gained mine. 

On the morning to which I now allude, I rapped 
4 



r 4 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

at the door, and tlie old woman opened it and looked 
at me without uttering a word. She did not even 
respond to my " good morning ;" and when I en- 
quired more particularly how she was, in as kind 
and respectful a manner as I could, she scarcely 
made any reply at all. She did not ask me to walk 
in ; but as the door was open, and she did not for- 
bid me, I passed into the house. Thinking that she 
might perhaps be a little disconcerted by my coming 
at a time inconvenient for her to see me, I told her as 
I went into the house, that " I would not hinder 
her long, I had called for only a minute, to see how 
she was." 

" I am glad to see you," said she, with a low 
voice and a very sullen look. She appeared so 
different from what I had ever seen her before, so 
downcast and sad, that I thought she might be un 
well, and therefore enquired particularly if she " was 
sick." 

" I am wellj" was her brief and solemn reply, ut- 
tered in a low and sepulchral tone. 

In order to make her feel at ease, if possible, I seat- 
ed myself upon a chair. It was covered with dust ; 
and her whole room, as I had often found it before, 
was so far from being decently clean, that I hesi- 
tated to sit down in it* Everjihing was in disorder. 
The floor had not been swept apparently for a week, 
—the ashes were scattered over the hearth-stone, — 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 75 

the scanty furniture was most of it broken, and re- 
sembling one of the chairs, which had but three legs, 
and was lying on its back, — the ceiling was festooned 
with cobwebs, that had caught the floating dust, and 
as they waved to and fro in the wind, they appeared 
like a mournful token of the wretchedness, which 
seemed to have taken possession of her heart. 

I made several attempts to lead her into some 
conversation, but it was all in vain — she spake only 
in muttered monosyllables. This surprised me. I 
had many times visited her before, and had sup- 
posed that my attention to her, my familiarity and 
kindness, had entirely won her esteem and good-will. 
Indeed I had supposed myself quite a favorite with 
her. Though I had sometimes reproved her very 
plainly, I had always done it affectionately, and shp 
had alwaj^s treated me politely, and as a friend. 
But now all was changed. She was cold and mute. 
She appeared very much as if she was angry, and 
moved about the room adjusting her little stock of 
furniture, as if she was too sad or too sullen to be 
conscious of my presence. She scarcely noticed me 
at all. 

Most sincerely I pitied her. I saw she appeared 
very wretched. I thought of her poverty, of her 
better days, of her youth, of her children, of her 
sins and her soul. She was of a respectable family, 
and had received a respectable education in her 



76 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

youth. I had often thought in my previous conver- 
sation with her, that she possessed a superior mind. 
And now, to behold her in this miserable condition, 
and no prospect before her of any relief, a disgrace 
to herself, to her children, wretched and heart- 
broken ; was too touching a thing to allow of any 
other feelings, than those of compassion and kind- 
ness. My heart bled for her. I could not have ut- 
tered a word of censure, even if my principles would 
have allowed it. I resolved to soothe and console 
her for a moment, if I could, before I left her. 
Said I : 

" Mrs. B , do you remember what I was speak- 
ing to you about, when I was here week before last?" 

" Tes," said she, with a low and sepulchral voice. 

" You know I told you that you had no reason 
to be discouraged." 

"I know you did," said she mournfully. 

" I told you that I thought you a woman of sup- 
erior sense, and capable even }^et of doing a great 
deal of good to yourself and your family." 

11 What can I do ?" said she in a tone of despair. 

" My dear friend, I told you when you asked me 
that question the other day. With God's blessing, 
if you will seek it, you may do anything you wish — 
you may be respected and happy here, and be saved 
in the world to come." 

I paused, but she made no reply. Said I : 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 77 

" Have you thought of what I told you then V 

She gave no answer. Said I : 

"Have you any disposition to try to seek God, 
and aim to gain everlasting life?" 

Still she was silent. Eising from my seat, and 
stepping towards the door, I said to her: 

"I am aware that I have called on you rather 
early in the morning, and I will not hinder you any 
longer now. If you will allow me, I shall be glad 
to call on vou at another time." 

I offered her my hand to bid her good bye, but 
instead of taking it, she placed her hand against the 
door to hinder me from opening it, saying in a firm 
and solemn tone, " Don't go" 

"I will stay longer," said I, "if you wish me to 
do so. I will do anything in my power for you, 

Mrs. B , most willingly ; but I suppose — " (lifting 

my hand to the latch) — 

" DonH go," said she, placing her shoulder firmly 
against the door, to keep it from opening. 

" "What can I do for you?" saiclX 

She did not answer. 

"Is there anything you wish to say to me, Mrs. 

B ? I hope you will speak freely to me. I 

assure you I will treat you with all kindness, and I 
think you know me well enough to trust me." 

Still she did not answer. She stood like a statue 
of stone, her. eyes fixed on the ground, her large 



78 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

frame slightly bending forwards, and her counte- 
nance strongly indicative of deep thought and mel- 
ancholy emotions. She seemed lost in her own 
contemplations. I considered her for a short time 
in silence. She moved not — she spake not — she 
never raised her eyes upon me — she scarcely breathed. 
I knew not what to think of her. She appeared 
angry, and yet it was not anger. Her solemn look, 
fixed and indescribable, made her resemble one 
wrought up to an iron determination for some 
mighty purpose. Said I : 

"Mrs. B , you appear to feel unhappy this 

morning. What has occurred that troubles you? 
or can I assist you in any way?' 7 

She drew a long breath, but remained as silent as 
ever, lost in thought, or in some wilderness of emo- 
tions. I did not know what to make of her. Evi- 
dently she was sober. At first I had thought she 
was angry, but her voice did not sound like it, in 
the few syllables which she had uttered. I could 
not leave her, for she stood motionless by the door, 
in such a position that I could not open it without 
swinging it against her, to push her out of the way. 
She held me her prisoner. 

I knew not what to say ; but concluded to make 
another attempt to find what was occupying hei 
thoughts. Said I : 

" Mrs. B , I wish you would tell me what 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. *79 

makes you so unhappy. I should think you would 
tell me ; I have always been a friend to you, and I 
think you have reason to confide in me." 

" I know 3 r ou have," said she, as unmoved and 
solemn as ever. 

" Then tell me what is the matter ? what troubles 
you?" 

" I am a great sinner /" said she, slowly and with 
deep solemnity. 

" That is true, and a much greater sinnei than 
you think." 

" I am such a sinner !" said she, with a coun- 
tenance as fixed and cold as marble. 

" Yes, I am glad you have found it out ; for now 
you will see the necessity of fleeing to that Saviour, 
of whom I have spoken to you so many times, as 
your only ground of hope." 

"I am undone forever /" said she, with a look of 
cold, fixed despair. 

" You would be, if there was no mercy in God, 
and no Christ Jesus to save. But God is able and 
willing to save all sinners who repent of sin and 
forsake it, and put all their trust in Christ." 

" I have sinned a great while !" 

"And God has borne with you a great while, 
simply because He is ' not willing ' that you ! should 
perish, but come to repentance.' Have you been 
praying to God to save you ?" 



80 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

" Yes, I prayed a long time last night ; and 1 
have been praying this morning till you came in." 

11 What did yon pray for ?" 

"I prayed that God would forgive me." 

" And do you think He will ?" 

" I am afraid not ! I am a very great sinner." 

" Jesus Christ, madam, is a very great Saviour, 
He will save all that come to Him in faith. The 
greatness of your sins cannot ruin you, if you will 
but repent of them and forsake them, trusting to 
the great Eedeemer of sinners for pardon, through 
His atoning blood. ' The blood of Jesus Christ 
cleanseth from all sin.' " 

" Will God have mercy upon me now, after all I 
have done?" said she, (for the first time lifting her 
eyes upon me, with a beseeching look.) 

" Yes, He will ; He says He will. ' Though your 
sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow ; 
though they be red like crimson, they shall be as 
wool.' " 

" I have been an awful sinner ! I am a poor crea- 
ture, unworthy of anything but God's curse !" 

" True, all true, madam ; but Christ is infinitely 
worthy, has borne the punishment due to sinners, 
and is willing to save you." 

u I wish I could think so," said she, with the 
same fixed and despairing look. 

11 You may think so ; God thinks so." 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 81 

" There is no mercy for me any longer !" 
"So you think, but God thinks differently. You 
and He do not think alike. He thinks right, and 
you think wrong. You must fling away youi own 
thoughts and act on His. And that is what He 
means in that expression in Isaiah, * let the wicked 
forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts, 
and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have 
mercy upon him, and to our God, for he will abun- 
dantly pardon. For my thoughts are not your 
thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the 
Lord.' Your thoughts, madam, your very sincerest and 
soberest thoughts, are to he forsaken. Your thoughts 
are wrong. Fling them away, and use God's thoughts. 
His thoughts are right. You think differently from 
Him, and therefore your thoughts are not to govern 
you. 'Let the unrighteous forsake his thoughts.' You 
think wrong about God, and wrong about yourself, 
and wrong about sin, and wrong about forgiveness. 
I do not mean that you think yourself a greater 
sinner than you are, for you have not yet seen the 
half of your guilt and danger ; but you think wrong 
about God's readiness to forgive you. Eemember 
that He says, 'Let the unrighteous forsake his 
thoughts.' And then, a little after, He says again, 
1 my thoughts are not your thoughts,' and goes on 
to say, ' for as the heavens are higher than the earth 
so are m}^ thoughts highei than your thoughts.' 



82 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

What does He mean by all this ? He means that it 
does not belong to you to tell what God will do or 
will not do. If you undertake to tell, you will be 
sure to tell wrong, because you think wrong. You 
must let Him tell what He will do. And He is tell- 
ing in that very passage about the forgiveness 
which you say you cannot think there is for you : 
4 Let him return unto the Lord and He will have 
mercy upon him,' But the sinner does not think 
so ; and therefore God says it over again, as if He 
would beat it into the poor sinner's heart, l let him 
return unto our God, for He will abundantly par- 
don.' " (She shook her head with a slow despond- 
ing motion, as I went on.) " You do not think so, 
but God does. He tells you ' my thoughts are not 
your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.' 
Your thoughts this minute are, 'lama great sinner.' 
God's thoughts are, ' I will have mercy upon her.' 
Your thoughts are, ■ I have sinned too long to be 
forgiven.' God's thoughts are, 4 1 will abundantly 
pardon her.' I should like to show you that whole 
chapter. I want to read it to you. Have you got 

a Bible, Mrs. B ?" 

Without uttering a word, she slowly moved from 
the door to the other side of the room, placed a 
chair beneath a high shelf, that was made of a single 
rough board, and hung up on rude wooden brackets, 
almost up to the wooden ceiling of the room. She 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 83 

then stepped up upon the chair, and reaching her 
hand upon the shelf, felt along till she found it, and 
took down her Bible. She stood upon the chair, 
and gazed upon it as she held it in her hand, with 
a fixed look. Then she slowly stepped down from 
the chair holding her Bible in her hand, and stopped 
and gazed upon it, motionless, and without uttering 
a word. It was covered all over with dust, soot 
and cobwebs, appearing as if it had not been handled 
for years. I thought her heart smote her, as she 
held it unopened and looked dow r n upon it. I 
thought I could u see the iron enter into her soul. 5, 
I did not disturb her. I was willing she should 
meditate and remember. There she stood, motion- 
less as a stone, with her eyes fixed upon her Bible, 
and I did not think it was best for me to say any- 
thing to her, — -the dusty, cobwebbed Bible was 
speaking ! The tears gushed from the eyes, and 
fell in quick drops upon its blackened lid. Slowly 
she lifted her tattered apron, and wiped off the tears 
and the dust, and deliberately turning towards me 
she extended to me the book — " there is my Bible !" 
said she, with a bitterness of accent that I shall 
never forget. She turned from me, with both hands 
lifted her dusty, ragged apron to her face, and wept 
aloud. 

I could not but weep too. It was a scene sur- 
passing, I am sure the genius of any painter. 



84 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

When she had become a little composed, I re- 
quested her to sit down by me, and then directing 
her eye to the expressions, I read and explained to 
her the fifty -fifth chapter of Isaiah. 

I attempted some farther conversation with her, 
but she did not seem so much inclined to talk as to 
listen. At her request I prayed with her ; and when 
I was about to leave her, I enquired : 

" How long have you been in this state of mind, 
Mrs. B , feeling that you are such a sinner ?" 

II Since last night." 

" What led you to feel so last night ?" 

" It was a little book that I read." 

"What book was it?" 

" Sixteen short Sermons." 

" Whose sermons were they ?" 

" I don't know. I came across the book some- 
where about the house. I don't know where it came 
from." 

" I mean who ivrote the Sermons ?" 

" I don't know." 

" Where is the book ? I should like to see it." 

"It is not here. I lent it this morning to Mrs. 
A " (a near neighbor). 

"Did Mrs. A want to read it herself ?" 

" Yes. She was in here, and would make me tell 
her what was the matter with me ; and after I told 
her, she said she wanted to read the Sermons too. 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 85 

So I lent it to her, a little while before you came 
in." 

Taking leave of Mrs. B , I went immediately 

to call on Mrs. A . I found her in tears. She 

had become alarmed about her condition, as a sin- 
ner against God. She frankly expressed to me her 
convictions and fears, adding with great emphasis, 
14 what shall I do ?" Of course I conversed with 
her and explained the way of salvation. But she 
said nothing about the book, until, as I was about 
to leave her, I enquired what it was that had in- 
clined her to attend to her salvation. " It was a 

little book that Mrs. B lent me this morning," 

said she ; and taking it from under her Bible that 
lay on the table, she put it into my hand. Then I 
discovered that it was a Tract, bearing the title, 
" Sixteen short Sermons," one of the publications of 
the American Tract Society, which I had entirely 
forgotten if I had ever read it, so that I did not re- 
cognize it by the title. 

After this, I often visited Mrs. B , and had 

many an interesting conversation with her. In one 
of these conversations, she referred gently and 
humbly to her daughter, and not, as I had formerly 
heard her, with manifest anger and ill-will. She 
said, "I should like to see her, — I have not seen 
her for many months ; but, I suppose, L hurts the 
poor child's feelings to come home, and find us — as 



86 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

we have been. I hope we shall not always be so." 
I immediately went to see her daughter ; and alone, 
and in as delicate a manner as I could, I told her of 
her mother's altered feelings, and suggested the pro- 
priety of her going to see her. She wept bitterly 
and long. It was almost impossible to comfort her 
at all ; and before I left her, I found it was not her 
mortification and shame about her mother, so much 
as her anxiety about her own salvation, which 
caused her distress. She had already heard of her 
mother's seriousness, and that was one of the causes 
of her own. But she did not go to see her mother. 
I pointed her to Christ as well as I could, and 
left her. 

A few days after this, I called upon the daughter 
again. I went to tell her of her mother's happy 
hope in Christ, which she had just expressed to me 
for the first time ; and to my no small joy and sur- 
prise, I found that the daughter had been led to the 
same sweet hope also. "Now" said she, the tears 
of joy coursing down her youthful and beautiful 
cheeks, "now, I can go to see my mother." 

She did go. She opened the door, and found the 
old woman alone. "My mother" said she, — and 
she could say no more. In an instant they were 
clasped in each other's arms, both bathed in tears 
of unutterable joy. 

That humble dwelling soon became as neat, as 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. Si 

grace had made its inmates happy. The daughter 
went home. She aided her mother in all her 
domestic duties, with a glad and grateful heart. 
She made their house as attractive as it had been 
repulsive. She made clothes for the younger chil- 
dren, and having assisted her mother to dress them 
up in a neat and respectable manner, the old woman 
attended them herself to the Sabbath school, and 
requested to have their names put down, "for," 
said she, " they will always be here every Sabbath, 
if you will be so kind as to teach them the Bible." 

That house and its inmates were very different in 
June, from what they had been in February. Neat- 
ness and peace reigned, where there had been filthi- 
ness, and clamor, and contention, through year after 
year of misery. The whole appearance of the woman 
was changed. She did not look like the same being. 
She became dignified, lady-like, intelligent, easy in 
her manners, and, though always solemn, she was 
uniformly contented and happy. " It seems to me," 
said she, "that I need but one thing more, and my 
cup is full: if my husband would only quit his 
ways, and turn to God, it seems to me we should 
be happy enough." But he never did. He con- 
tinued his intemperance. I exerted all my skill to 
persuade him to forsake his ruinous course ; but I 
met him thirteen years afterwards, staggering in 
the street. 



88 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

Eight months after the time when I found this 
woman so suddenly awakened to a sense of her 
situation, by " a little book that she had read," I 
baptized both her and her daughter, and they were 

received into the church the same day. Mrs. A , 

her neighbor, who borrowed the book, was received 
and baptized at the same time. When the old 
woman presented herself in the church for the 
reception of baptism, her old neighbors and friends, 
who had been acquainted with her for a score of 
years, did not know who she was, — her appearance 
was so altered; — and I found it difficult the next 
day to make them believe that it was verily their 
old neighbor, whom they had pitied and despaired 
of so long. 

There was nothing of any marked peculiarity in 
this woman's religious experience, unless it was her 
deep humility ; her iron determination manifest al- 
ways from the very beginning of her conviction ; 
and after her conversion, her unbounded gratitude to 
God. " Who could have thought," said she, "that 
God would have mercy upon such a creature as I ?" 

That " little book," the " Sixteen Short Sermons," 
lent from house to house through the neighborhood, 
did good service in that season of a revival of reli- 
gion, which I have always supposed originated from 
its influence, more than from any other one thing. 
However this may have been (and I believe there 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 89 

is a great deal of foolish error abroad among the 
churches in attempting to account for revivals of re- 
ligion, and trace their origin), the name of Mrs. 

B stands recorded in my private book, the very 

first name in the list of the hopeful converts to 
Christ in that revival — a list containing more than 
Two Hundred and Fifty names. 

As long as I continued to be her Pastor, Mrs. 

B always appeared to me to be a humble and 

happy Christian. There was uniformly an air of 
deep solemnity about her, of profound humility, and 
a cast of mournfulness too, whenever she adverted 
to her past life, or the time of her hopeful conver- 
sion. The remembrance of what she was, seems to 
have thrown a sombre shade over her character. 
Twenty years have passed away, and she still lives, 
enjoying the Christian confidence and affection of 
her church. 

I have sometimes called upon her, since I ceased 
to be her Pastor, and removed to another and dis- 
tant place. At one time I visited her after an inter- 
val of thirteen years. I did not expect she would 
know me. I knocked at the door — she invited me 
in — and taking a seat I asked some business-like 
questions about two or three of her neighbors. She 
responded readily to my questions, but kept her 
eyes fixed upon me, with a kind of curious and doubt- 
ful inquisitiveness. This questioning and answer- 



90 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

ing and inspecting continued for several minutes, 
till I supposed that the nature of my questions had 
thoroughly concealed my identity. Finally I asked 
her,- — 

" Have you got a Bible ?" 

Adjusting her spectacles to her eyes with both her 
hands, she replied, — 

u Ain't you priest Spencer f Them are the same 
eyes that used to look right through me. How do 
you do ? I am glad to see you." 

" I am no priest" said I. 

" Well, we used to call ministers so when I was 
young. It is just like you to come and see me. 
But I didn't expect it." 

I inquired whether she still kept her " Sixteen 
Short Sermons." 

" 0, yes," said she, " that is next to the Bible." 

I told her that I should like to have that same 
book, and asked if she would be willing to give 
it to me. Said she, — 

" I will give }^ou anything else I've got ; but I 
should be unwilling to spare that, unless I could get 
another just like it. I read it over every little 
while." 

She produced the same old tract, which I had 
seen in her house more than seventeen years before. 
It bore the marks of age, and of much service. It 
had become almost illegible by use, and time, and 



THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 91 

dust. " It has been all around the neighborhood,'' 
said she. " I have lent it to a great many folks ; 
and sometimes I have had hard work to hunt it up, 
and get it back home again." 

I gave her two new ones of the same sort, and 
also the whole bound volume which contains it ; 
and after carefully examining the two, leaf by leaf, 
u to see if they were just like it," as she said, she 
finally consented to part with her old, time-worn, 
rusty tract. " I thought," said she, " I never should 
part with that book, — but these new ones are better ; 
I can read them easier, and I can lend them to more 
folks. Some people will read these, who would not 

read one so dirtv and old as that." 

t/ 

I felt half guilty for taking her old companion, 
and was sorry I had ever asked for it. As I 
parted with her and came away, I noticed that her 
eyes kept fixed upon the " Sixteen Short Sermons," 
that I held in my hand. I hope yet to be permitted 
to return it to her. 

There were two things in the character of this 
woman worthy of very special notice, — her deter- 
mination and her dependence. So firmly was she 
fixed in her resolution to abandon the habit, which 
had so long been her sin, and the cause of her 
misery, that after her first seriousness on that mem- 
orable night, she never once tasted the cup of her 



92 THE NEGLECTED BIBLE. 

shame. She would not see anybody else do it, — she 
would not go where it was, — she would cross the 
street to avoid passing the door where it was- sold, 
• — she would not even look at it. And so entire 
was her dependence on God to keep her from it, 
that she gave the memorable description of her 
course, — " drink anything? no ! if I ever think of it, 
I immediately go to prayer." I recommend her 
example to every reader of this book: — u drink 
anything ? no ! if you ever think of it, immediately 
go to prayer." 



fto <j8fa|..e. 



In conversation with, a ypung man, who desired 
to unite with, the church, he surprised me very much. 
by a reference which, he made to his former " detes- 
tation of religion," as he called it, and by mention- 
ing the manner in which he was first led to any 
considerable concern in reference to his salvation. I 
bad known him with some intimacy for several 
months, had frequently conversed with him as a 
serious inquirer, and afterwards as one who enter- 
tained a hope in Christ. But he had never before 
mentioned to me so definitely the means of his 
awakening, and his previous opposition to religion. 

He belonged to a pious family; his parents and sev- 
eral of his brothers were members of the church ; he 
was a moral and staid, industrious, intelligent young 
man, always attending church, and was a teacher in 
the Sabbath school. I had not supposed that his feel- 
ings of opposition to religion had ever assumed the 
strong character which he described to me now ; and 
I had never known the means of their alteration. I 
happened to ask him, — 



94 NO ESCAPE. 

" Mr. H- , what was it that first called your 

attention definitely to religion, when you began to 
make it a matter of your personal concern ?" 

" I found there was no escape, I could not get 
away from it." 

" What do you mean, when you say i there was 
no escape V " 

" Why the subject met me everywhere. Where- 
ever I went there was something to make me think 
of it." 

"•Yes," said I, " there are things to bring it to 
mind all around us and always, if we would heed 
them. God has filled His world with things sug- 
gestive of Himself." 

" Oh, sir," said he, "I don't mean that at all. It 
is true, that now almost everything makes me think 
of God and my duty ; but I mean things that were 
done on purpose to catch me. It seemed to me that 
I was pursued everywhere. There was no getting 
away. If I went to church on Sunda}^ ; you never 
let us off with a descriptive or literary sermon, like 
a college professor; you always had something about 
faith, or repentance, or depravity, or the duty of 
sinners to fly to Christ. If I went to my store on a 
week day, thinking I should escape there, because I 
had something else to attend to ; my partner would 
have something to say to me about religion, or 
something to say in my presence which I knew was 



NO ESCAPE* 95 

meant for me. If I met you in the street ; you were 
sure not to let me pass without bringing up that 
subject in some way or other. If I went home to 
dinner or tea ; religion would be talked of at the 
table. If I was spending any part of the evening in 
the family after I left the store ; it was the same thing 
again : religion, religion would come up ; every one 
had something to say which made me think of re- 
ligion. If I went off to bed, (as I did many a time 
to get out of the hearing of it ;) my sister had put a 
tract upon my pillow. I could not bear all this. I 
often avoided everybody and went to my room, 
where I could be alone, and think of what I pleased; 
and there the first thing to meet me would be some 
religious book, which my mother or some one else 
had put in the place most likely to attract my atten- 
tion; and perhaps left it open at some passage 
marked on purpose for me. After several of my 
young associates had become Christians, and began 
to talk about religion ; I avoided them and sought 
other company, and pretty soon they began to talk 
religion too ! I was provoked at it I" 

11 Did these people, who endeavored to influence 
you, treat you rudely or impolitely ?" 

" Oh, no ! That w r as the worst of it. I hoped 
they would. If they had been meddlesome and 
impudent, I should have had something to find 
fault with, and should have told them to mind their 



NO ESCAPE, 



own business, and keep their religion to themselvea 
I should have said, that religion makes men un- 
gentlemanly, and unfit for society, — and so should 
have excused myself. But there was none of that. 
There was little said to me. All that was done, 
was only calculated to make me think for myself, 
and of myself ; and so I could not complain. But re- 
ligion came up before me on all sides ; whichever 
way I turned, morning, noon, and night, it was 
there. I could not escape it." 

" Did you have a strong desire to escape it ?" 
" Yes, I did. I turned every way. I avoided 
Christians. One Sunday, I stayed away from 
church ; — but that contrivance worked the other way, 
for I could think of nothing but religion all the 
morning, and so in the afternoon I went to church, 
to see if I couldn't forget it there. When I came 
home I went into an unoccupied room, because 
they began to talk about the sermon in the parlor ; 
and the first thing that met me was the Bible, — laid 
open at the second chapter of Proverbs, and a 
pencil-mark drawn round the first six verses. 
" This is some of mother's work," said I. Finally, 
I resolved to sell out my store, and get away into 
some place where I should not be tormented about 
religion any longer. I began to make arrangements 
for selling out." 

" Well, sir, what altered your mind ?" 



XO ESCAPfi. 97 

" Why,' just as I was in this trouble to get away 
from religion, resolving not to live any longer in 
such a place as this ; I began to think what I was 
after, — why I desired to get away. And then I 
soon found out it was because I desired to get away 
from the truth, and away from God. That alarmed 
me, and shamed me. I thought, then, that if there 
was no escape from men here, there could be no 
escape from Grod anywhere. And though it cost 
my pride a hard struggle, I made up my mind that 
I was all wrong, and I would attend to my salva- 
tion. Then I began ; but I don't think I ever 
should have begun, if I had not been hunted in 
every place where I tried to escape." 

" Did you have any more temptation to neglect 
religion after that?" 

" No. I immediately took my stand. I went 
among the inquirers openly. Then I was disap- 
pointed to find how little I cared any longer for the 
world, for w^hat people would say, and all such 
things, as I used to think would be great trials to 
me. And I believe now, there is very much gained 
by getting a sinner to commit himself on this matter. 
Then he will not wish to get off." 

" What way do you think is most likely to succeed 
for inducing any one L to commit himself' to attend 
to his religion ?" 

" Oh, I cannot answer that Any way is good, I 

5 



98 NO ESCAPE. 

suppose, which will lead people to think. Judging 
from my own experience, I should suppose that no 
irreligious person in the world could put off religion 
any longer, if his way was hedged up as mine was, 
so that he could not avoid thinking of the subject." 

Such was a part of my conversation with him. 
He united with the church ; and I have some reason 
to suppose, that since that time he has aimed to 
" lead people to think," in such a manner that there 
could be "no escape." 

Thoughtlessness is the common origin of un- 
concern. "We do a far better office for men when 
we lead them to think, than when we think for them. 
A man's own thoughts are the most powerful of all 
preaching. The Holy Spirit operates very much by 
leading men to reflection — to employ their own mind. 
I should hesitate to interrupt the religious reflections 
of any man in the world, by the most important 
thing I could say to him. If I am sure he will think y 
I will consent to be still. But men are prone to be 
thoughtless, and we must speak to them to lead 
them to reflection. 

But the instance of this young man contains, as I 
think, a most important lesson. It appears to show, 
that Christian people may easily exercise an influence 
upon the minds of the worldly ; and I have often 
thought such an influence is the very thing which 



NO ESCAPE. 99 

the chinch needs, more than almost anything else. 
There is many a member of the church having faith, 
having benevolence, and sincerely desirous of the 
conversion of sinners, who never has once opened 
his lips to commend religion to the careless, and has 
never in any way attempted to lead them to serious 
reflection. It is not too much to say, that this is 
wrong. Surely it cannot be right for the people of 
God to wrap their talent in a napkin and hide it in 
the earth ! In some mode, almost every Christian in 
the midst of us is able to influence the thoughts of 
the careless every day. By conversation, by time- 
ly remarks, by books, by Tracts, and by a thousand 
nameless methods, they have opportunity to impress 
religious truth upon indifferent minds. There is too 
much neglect of this. The irreligious often notice 
this neglect ; and whenever they notice it, they are 
very apt to have a diminished esteem for religious 
people, if not for religion itself. A minister cannot 
go everywhere and speak to every body in the com- 
munity, but private Christians can. Such Christians 
are meeting the ungodly daily, they know them, they 
associate with them, work with them, trade with 
them, and it would be easy for them to awaken 
many a sinner, whom a minister cannot reach. 
Such exertion is one great want of the church- There 
are few irreligious persons in the midst of us who 
are compelled to say, " there is no escape,'' 



Clje 0ate of Conbeoton. 

In a very remote and rural part of my parish, 
several miles from my own residence, and by the 
side of an unfrequented road ; there lived a married 
woman, whose state of mind on the subject of re- 
ligion interested me much, the first time I visited 
her. I thought I discovered in her a sort of readi- 
ness to obey the Gospel, if I may use such an ex- 
pression. She was about thirty years of age, full of 
vivacity, enthusiasm and kindness, simple, beauti- 
ful, graceful; and when she became animated in 
conversation, her clear blue eye beamed with intelli- 
gence and sweetness of disposition, which flung an 
indescribable charm around all that she uttered. 
She and her husband had been religiously educated. 
She was a woman of refined manners, and to me 
she appeared the more interesting, because she evi- 
dently never suspected herself of any refinement at 
all. Her politeness, which I have seldom seen 
equalled, w^as not the politeness of the schools, but 
of nature : not the polish of art, but the prompting 
of simplicity and an affectionate disposition. In all 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 101 

things she appeared unaffected, natural, simple. She 
was willing to appear just what she was, and there- 
fore always appeared to advantage. Her manners 
would have graced the most refined society. She 
made no pretensions under the promptings of pride 
or vanity, uttered no apologies for her appearance, 
and felt no bashfulness in the presence of a stranger. 
Too far removed from any school to be able to send 
her children, she taught them herself ; and her three 
little boys, for intelligence, kindness and propriety 
of manners, might have served for models to almost 
any other in the parish. I found the little things a 
short distance from the house, plucking the wild 
flowers in the woods, to entwine in their mother's 
hair, which they claimed the privilege to adorn in 
that manner, and which might be seen thus adorned, 
according to their taste, almost any day, from the 
early spring-time till the frost had nipped the last 
blossom of the year. Eight summers had not passed 
over the head of the eldest. They were the children 
of nature — simple, fearless, artless. The frank, gen- 
tle and affectionate demeanor of these little crea- 
tures, especially towards one another, gave me, as 
I thought, some insight into the character of their 
mother. I judged of her by her little pupils, and 
afterwards found that I judged justly. I took them 
as bright miniat, ^es of herself. And I did not think 
the less of her when I perceived the evident pleasure 



102 THE DATE 0¥ CONVERSION. 

and exultation (if I may not say pride), which, she 
had in them. 

I visited her as her minister. I was a stranger to 
her. She was evidently glad to see me at her house, 
and the more so as she had not expected it. After 
making some inquiries about her husband and her 
children, I inquired of her, — 

" Are you and your husband members of the 
church?" 

"No sir," said she with a downcast look. 

" Neither of you ?" 

" No sir." 

"And why not? Are you still living without 
religion?" 

" I suppose we are. I have wished a great many 
times that I was fit to be a communicant." 

" And why are you not fit?" 

" Because I have no saving faith. I could not go 
to the Lord's table without faith." 

"No, but you ought to go with faith. Jesus 
Christ is offered to you in the Gospel, to be your 
Saviour. Your duty is to believe in Him. And 
are you still, at your time of life, an unbeliever ?" 

" I suppose I am," said she, with a pensive look. 

" And are you going tc continue so ?" 

After a long pause, during which her thoughts 
seemed very busy, she replied, with an accent of 
sadness, — 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 103 

" Indeed, sir, I cannot tell." 

II Are you willing to continue so ?" 

" No, sir, I am not satisfied with myself. I think 
about religion very often, but — " 

" And do you pray about it very often ?" 

" No, sir, not very often, since I was a child." 

" Have you prayed to-day?" 

"No, sir." 

" Did you pray last Sabbath?" 

" No, sir. I read my Bible. I sometimes pray, 
but my prayers are not answered." 

" What do you pray for P 

II I have prayed for forgiveness and the Holy 
Spirit ; but it was all in vain to me." 

" And so you ceased to pray." 

" Yes, sir. I thought I could do nothing without 
the Holy Spirit." 

"But, my dear madam, it was the Holy Spirit 
that led you to prayer. God was calling to you at 
those times when you were constrained to pray." 

" I have never thought so, sir." 

" Then He has been more kind towards you than 
you have thought." 

" I wish I was a Christian." 

11 You may be one, if you will; but not without 
earnest prayer. Will you seriously attend to your 
Balvation, beginning now ? With the Bible to guide 



104 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

you, and the Holy Spirit to pray for, will you it onct 
begin to seek the Lord ?" 

A long pause followed this question. She seemed 
to be lost in thought, and I did not choose to disturb 
her thoughts. She appeared downcast ; but after a 
little while, I thought I perceived a sort of obstinacy 
manifest in her countenance, and fearing that she 
was about to utter some objection, I suddenly rose 
to take my leave. 

u What!" said she, "are you going?" 

" I must go, madam." 

"Shall I ever see you again?" said she, beseech- 
ingly. 

" Do you wish to see me again ?" 

" Yes, sir, I cfo," said she, emphatically. 

" Then I will come to see you as soon as I can. 
But before I come, I hope you will have made up 
} our mind fully, and will have turned to Christ." 

A month afterwards I called upon her. She 
appeared much as before. At times she had prayed, 
but not daity. I talked to her plainly and affec- 
tionately, prayed with her and left her. 

I had now little hope of doing her any good. 
However, about three months afterwards, being in 
that neighborhood, 1 called upon her. I could find 
little alteration in her feelings or habits, except that 
she seemed to have a more tender spirit, and was 
more accustomed to prayer. But nothing I could 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 105 

sr.y appeared to make much impression upon her. 
She assented to all the truths of religion. She had 
known them from her childhood, when her religions 
parents taught her. A pensiveness and solemnity 
hung around her ; but she had no deep anxiety. In 
various ways I strove to affect her ; but it was all in 
vain, till I appealed to her conscience and sensi- 
bilities as a mother. I said to her. — 

" You have three precious children intrusted to 
3^ou, and your example will have great influence over 
them. They will be very much what you make 
them. If you are irreligious, they will be very likely 
to remain so too. If they see you living a life of 
faith and prayer, the example will not be lost upon 
them. You ought to be able to teach them religion. 
But how can you teach them what you do not know 
yourself ? Allow me to say, — and I am glad I can say 
it,' — I have been delighted to notice your conduct to- 
wards your children, In my opinion, few mothers 
do so well. I think you are training them wisely in 
all things but one. May I say it to you, I know of 
no children of their age who please me so much. 
In their excellence I see your own ; and this com- 
jjels me to respect and love you the more, and be 
the more anxious that you should train them for 
heaven. I am very sorry that you are an irreligious 
mother /" 

She burst into tears ; and rising suddenly from 



106 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

hei seat, turned lier face towards the window and 
wept convulsively. I left her without uttering a 
word. 

It was more than six months before I could see her 
again. As I called upon her after this long interval, 
she told me that she had tried to repent and flee to 
Christ, had prayed daily, but her heart remained 
the same, and she was amazed at her stupidity. M I 
am insensible as a stone" said she. " It seems to me 
I feel nothing. I wish to love God, and be a Chris- 
tian ; but I am fully convinced that I have no 
power at all over my hard heart. And yet I have 
some faint hope, that God will have mercy upon 
me, after all my stubbornness and stupidity, and will 
yet grant me the Holy Spirit. Is it wrong for me 
to have such a hope?" 

"Not at all, my dear Madam. I am glad you 
have that hope. Hold on upon it. Only let all 
your hope be in God through Jesus Christ. Let no- 
thing discourage you for an instant, while you attempt 
to obey the Gospel. I believe God has good things 
in store for you. You may say, 'will he plead 
against me with his great power ? no, he will put 
strength in me.' " 

11 Oh that I knew where to find Him," said she. 

"He is on His throne of grace," said I. ' Then 
shall ye go and pray unto me, and ye shall seek me, 
and ye shall find me. when ye shall search for me 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 107 

with your whole heart, and I will be found of you, 
saith the Lord.' " 

" I do seek, sir ; but why does not God give me 
the Holy Spirit?" 

"He does give it, Madam. He calls you. He 
strives with you. He shows vou your sin, your 
stupidity, your strange heart.' 

" But, sir, do you think the Holy Spirit is sent to 
one alone ? and when there is no revival ?" 

" Strange question for you to ask ! Yes, my dear 
friend, most unquestionably. Is the offer made only 
to a multitude ? Is it not made to every one that 
asks Him?" 

a I know it is. But it seems to me that it would 
be too much to expect God would regard me alone, 
when there are no others inclined to turn unto Him." 

" Then your unbelieving heart does an injustice 
to His kindness. He is a thousand fold better than 
you think Him. He ' waits to be gracious unto 
you.' He ' calls and you refuse.' Because you do 
not know of others disposed to seek God, you have 
little courage to seek Him, though you know that 
His promises are made, and invitations given to each 
individual sinner like yourself: to you, as much as 
if you were the only sinner in the universe." 

" But, if others were attending to religion, if my 
husband and neighbors were, I should have more 
expectation of succeeding." 



108 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

" Madam, I am not sure of that. I will not too 
mucli blame you for thinking so ; but see here ; you 
do not know how many others feel just as you do, and 
wait for you just as you wait for them. You men- 
tioned your husband. I am going to see him ; and 
I have not an item of doubt, but before I have left 
him he will confess to me that he is waiting for 
you. 17 

" Why, I never thought of that," said she with 
surprise. 

" I suppose not. But it is time for you to think 
of it. You and he are waiting for one another. 
Which shall begin first ? I would not afflict you, or 
say an unkind word to you ; I have not a feeling in 
my heart that would allow me to do it ; but I tell 
you seriously, you are a hindrance to your husband. 
He may be a hindrance to you. I suppose he is. 
But you are a hindrance to him." 

" I do not intend to be a hindrance to him." 

" But you are, and you will continue to be, more 
or less, as long as he thinks you to be an unconverted 
sinner, living in your indifference and stupidity." 

" What shall I do ?" 

" I will tell you what to do. First give your own 
self to the Lord. Did you ever talk with your hus- 
band on the subject of religion?" 

" Oh yes, a great many times." 

" Have you lately ? and have you told him how 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 109 

you feel about your own heart, your sin and your 
salvation ?" 

"Oh, no sir, I have not said anything to him about 
thaC 

" So I supposed. And now I will tell you what 
to do. When he comes in, and you and he are 
alone together, just tell him plainly and affectionate- 
ly, how you feel, what you have done, and what 
you intend to do. Open your whole heart to him. 
When he hears you talking so, he at least will know 
of one sinner who intends to seek the Lord. And 
thus, you will hinder him no longer." 

This was quite an unexpected turn of thought to 
her. She sat in silence for a little time, as if medi- 
tating the matter, and then inquired, — 

" Did you say you would see my husband to-day f n 

" Yes. And he will tell me you are a hindrance 
to him, just as you say he is a hindrance to you." 

" But, sir, I did not say exactly that? 

" True, madam, you did not. I have expressed 
the idea a little more plainly than you did, and 
much less politely. You said it in your kind way, 
and I in my coarse one. I have not essentially 
altered it. You did mention what an encouragement 
it would be to you, if your husband were attending 
to his salvation. He feels precisely so about his 
wife, in my opinion. And what I want r£ you both 
is, that you should encourage and aid one another." 



110 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

" I should be very glad, if lie was truly a Chris- 
tian." 

" He would be very glad, if you were truly a 
Christian. But will you do what I have just told 
you ? Will you tell him your feelings ?" 

After a short pause, with her eyes fixed on the 
ground, and a look of ineffable solemnity and ten- 
derness, she replied emphatically, — 

" Yes, my dear pastor, I will? 

" Good-bye," said I, and reaching her my hand, 
instantly left her. 

I soon found her husband in the field, at work 
among his corn ; and shaping the conversation ac- 
cording to my previous intent, it was not long before 
he said to me, — 

" Well, if my wife thinks it is time for her to 
attend to religion, I shall certainly think it is 
time for me, when my poor health reminds me so 
often of my end." 

" I have been talking with her, and I assure you 
that, in my opinion, she would certainly be quite 
ready, were it not for one thing." 

"What is that?" said he, with surprise and 
concern. 

" That one thing is yourself. It is you who are 
a hindrance to her. You do not follow Christ, and 
she has not the encouragement of your example." 

" That need not stand in her way " 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. Ill 

" But it does stand in lier way. She follows your 
example. She naturally looks to you as a guide, 
and her affectionate disposition catches your feel- 
ings. As long as you remain an irreligious man, 
your influence tends to make her remain an irre- 
ligious woman. You may be assured of this. You 
yourself just told me, that if she thought it was time 
for her to give her heart to religion, jom should 
certainly think it was time for you ; and is it not 
natural that she should think so too ? You are the 
husband. She looks to you as a guide. She looks 
to you more than you look to her. She feels youi 
influence more than you feel her's. Thus you are 
a hindrance to her, when you ought to be a help." 
" She never said anything to me about it." 
u And did you ever say anything to her about it?" 
"No, nothing in particular. But I have been 
thinking about religion a good deal, as I told you 
when you came here in the winter ; and I do not 
feel contented. I am not prepared to die, and the 
thoughts of it make my mind gloomy." 

" You may have such thoughts as to make your 
mind glad. The gospel is i good tidings of great 
joy,' and 'for all people,' — for you. And when you 
go home, I want you to talk with your wife on this 
subject, as you know you ought to do ; and tell her 
what you think. Will you do so ?" 
11 1 will think about it." 



112 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

"But will you do it?" 

" I can't say, I can't say." 

11 Well, aim to do your duty in the fear of God ; 
aim to lead your wife and children to the kingdom 
of heaven." I left him. 

This man was of a very sedate and cautious dis- 
position. He was amiable, but he was firm. He 
was no creature of impulses. His wife had more 
vivacity, more sprightliness, more ardor, while she 
was by no means deficient in decision of character. 
I hoped that the vivacity of the one would stimulate 
the slowness of the other, and that the thinking 
habits of the man would steady and temper the 
ardor of the more impulsive woman. 

Without much hope of being able to influence 
them at all, I called upon them again the next week 
— sooner probably than I should have done, but for a 
sort of curious desire to know the result of their 
next meeting after I left them. The wife met me 
at the door with evident gladness. " I am very 
happy to see you," said she, "I have something to 
tell you. My husband is serious, and I do hope he 
will become a Christian." 

"And I suppose he hopes you will become a 
Christian." 

" I wish I was one, but I am as stupid as ever. 
My husband is much more like a Christian than I 
am." 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 113 

"Then his seriousness has not done you the good 
you expected from it." 

" No, and I am astonished at myself. But I must 
tell you. After you went away last week I did not 
know what to do, I felt very strange about speaking 
to him as I promised you I would. I did not know 
how to legin. I thought of it a long time. At last 
I came to the conclusion to begin as soon as he came 
in, and tell it all over, just as it was. So when I 
heard him coming through the gate, I went out and 
met him there under the tree. Says I, i Mr. Spencer 
has been here talking with me, and I want to tell 
1 you, my dear Luther, how I feel. 7 He stopped and 
looked at me without saying a word, and I told him 
all about myself, since the time when I was a little 
child. He listened to it all, looking at me and then 
on the ground ; and when I had got done, I asked 
him if he did not think we ought to live differently. 
I was so delighted when he answered right off, ' Yes, 
I do.' I could hardly keep from weeping for joy, 
it was so different from what I expected. I said, 
4 My dear Luther, let us not neglect salvation any 
longer.' Says, he, ' I don't mean to ; I am deter- 
mined to do all I can to lay up treasures in heaven.' 
After dinner we had a long talk. Almost the whole 
afternoon he sat here reading the Bible, and talking 
with me. Sometimes he did not say a word for a 
long time, but would read and then stop and think. 



114 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

As soon as lie went out, I went alone and prayed, 
and then for the first time in my life I was glad to 
think I might pray. In the evening he sat here 
with me and the children, without saying much, only 
he asked me some questions about the Atonement 
and the Holy Spirit and faith in Christ. And when 
it was time for the children to go to bed, I whispered 
to him, L shall we not have family prayer?' He 
got right up, without saying a word, took down the 
Bible, told the boys to wait a little while, and then 
turned to the third chapter of John, and read it 
loud. Then we all kneeled down and he made a 
prayer. Such a prayer ! I could not help weeping. " 
After we rose from our knees, and were sitting in 
silence a little while, our second boy went to him 
and put his little arms around his neck. ' Father,' 
says he, 'I wish you would pray so every night.' 
He looked very serious ; and when the boy waited 
for an answer, looking right in his face, he told him, 
4 1 am going to do it every night and every morn- 
ing too.' Since that time I have been more happy 
than I ever was before. I know I am not a Chris- 
tian, but I hope Grocl will have mercy upon us, and 
lead us to Christ." 

Such was her simple story ; and she told it in a 
manner that would have affected any heart. Her 
little boys clustered around her, wept at seeing her 
weep, and I should have despised myself, if I could 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 115 

have avoided weeping with them. Her husband 
soon came in from the field, and after some little 
conversation, I prayed with them, and left them. 

Months passed away before I saw them again. 
They then appeared much alike. They had no 
hope, but they did not seem unhappy. They only 
hoped, that God would yet bring them to repentance. 
If now they had no faith, it did not seem to me 
that they had any slavish fear ; and I could not say a 
word to discourage or alarm them, for I certainly 
did hope for them, since God is ' a rewarder of them 
that diligently seek him? After this I left them to 
themselves. 

Just before a communion season, which came 
about six months after my last interview with them, I 
was very agreeably surprised by an unexpected visit 
of this man and his wife, who called upon me at 
the time publicly appointed for conversation with 
those who desired to unite with the Church. They 
had come on that account. They believed that God 
had led them to faith in His Son, and they wished 
to commemorate the Saviour's death at his table. I 
had much conversation with them. They could 
not tell when their faith or hope commenced ; and 
that was their greatest trouble, and the only ground 
of their hesitation about making a public profession 
of religion. They had been very much alike in 
their feelings. For months they had been happy, 



116 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

not by the belief that they were Christians, but in 
the exercises of the means of grace, and in the hope 
that God would lead them in his own way and time 
to religion. In this confidence they had rested, and 
loved to rest. The Bible, and prayer, and religious 
conversation were their delight. And it was not 
till they had passed month after month in this hap- 
py manner, that the idea occurred to either of them, 
that they were the children of God. The wife thought 
of this first, and the thought made her unhappy. " I 
was afraid," said she, " of a false hope, and I tried to 
feel as I used to, when I was afraid of being lost for- 
ever." She mentioned her fears to her husband, 
and was astonished to find that he had the same fear 
about himself; because he too had almost half hoped, 
that he was reconciled to God ; but had been banish- 
ing the hope as a snare of the great adversary. Then 
they wanted to see me ; and as I did not visit them, 
the wife proposed, that they should come to see 
me that very day, for she " wanted to know whether 
she was a Christian or not." After much conversa- 
tion, her husband told her that no man could tell 
her that, for God only could read the heart, and it 
would be better to examine themselves alone for a 
while. And a week or two afterwards, he objected 
to coming to me at all on such an errand, because 
the Bible says, ' examine your own selves whether ye 
be in the faith, prove your own selves. 1 Said he, M let 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 117 

us pray, ' Lord search me and know my heart, and 
lead me in the way everlasting.' " 

Week after week, their peaoe of mind grew more 
uniform and sweet. They found, as they thought, 
that they loved God. that they trusted in Christ for 
pardon, that they hated sin, and found their greatest 
felicity in the divine promises, and in the thoughts 
and duties of religion. Both alike, they were deter- 
mined to serve their Lord and Master as long as 
they should live. And because they found, as they 
believed, the evidences of religion in themselves, 
they came to the conclusion that they were Chris- 
tians. 

But when they came to me, the husband said, 
"We have, after all, one great trouble. We are 
not fully sure that we have had the gift of the Holy 
Spirit. We have never been sensible of any sudden 
change, and we have had no strong feelings of dis- 
tress on account of sin, or of great joy on account 
of having faith. If I have any religion, I want to 
know when it began ?" 

■ " Can jovl tell, sir, when j^our corn begins to 
grow ? — or when your wheat begins to come up ? 
Could you tell, my dear madam, when those beauti- 
ful violets and pinks under your window began to 
come up ?" 

She smiled upon me, with a countenance radiant 
with new intelligence and joy, and burst into tears. 



118 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

Said her husband, after a serious, thoughtful pause, 
" I know my corn has come up, and I know my 
wheat does grow." 

" Very well," said I ; "I have no more to say." 
The wife turned to her husband, after a few 
minutes, saying, " I should like to know when I 
began to love God : and, Luther, it seems to me 
that we have been Christians ever since that first 
night when you prayed." 

They united with the church, though uncertain 
of the date of their conversion. He became a very 
staid and thoughtful Christian. She was a Christian 
of light and smiles. Both were contented and 
happy. " I am glad we live in this retired place," 
said she to me, a year afterwards ; "we can enjoy 
religion here, and nobody comes to trouble us. We 
have some kind and pious neighbors a little way 
off, who are a great comfort to us ; but my Bible, 
my boys, and my flowers are enough to make me 
happy. I would not give up my little home, my 
cottage, and my woods, for the richest palace in the 
world:" — and tears of joy coursed down her cheeks 
when she said it. Adverting to her former trouble, 
she said, — " I have come to the conclusion, that it 
is best for me that I have never yet been able to fix 
the time of my conversion ; I am afraid I should 
trust too much to it, if I could. Now I trust to 
nothing but to continued faith, and to living in 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 119 

happy fellowship with my God, my Heavenly 
Father. My husband is happy too, and what can I 
want more, except the conversion of my children?" 
As she said this, she turned away, and wept. 

Her husband died in peace, as I have been told ; and 
his precious wife, now a widow, has unspeakable com- 
fort in two pious sons, — her joy, and her earthly 
crown. They will soon be her eternal crown in the 
kingdom of heaven. I cannot doubt it. 

These instances of conversion are here given, as 
examples of an extensive class. In making my 
first visit to the families of my congregation, I met 
with a number of persons, who appeared to me to 
have some readiness to give their attention to the 
gospel call. They were not anxious, not alarmed, 
or, in the common acceptation of the term, serious. 
They evidently did not consider themselves the 
subjects of any special Divine influence, or as hav- 
ing any particular inclinations towards religion. 
But they appeared to me to be candid and con- 
scientious, and to have a kind of readiness to obey 
the gospel. There was an indescribable something 
about them, I know not what, which made me have 
more hope for them than for others. 

To the names of about twenty such persons I 
attached a private mark in my congregational book, 
(containing the names of all my congregation,) — a 



120 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

mark to indicate to me their state of mind, and 
prompt me to visit them again as soon as possible, 
but the meaning of which no one but myself could 
understand. If I may say so, they seemed ready to 
become Christians, — I know not how to describe 
their state of mind by any more just or intelligible 
expression. If, in the time of a revival of religion, 
they had said the same things which they now said, 
had presented the same appearances, and manifested 
the same impressions, no minister or Christian, as it 
seemed to me, would have hesitated to ascribe their 
impressions to the influences of the Holy Spirit, 
And, therefore, why should I not now have that 
opinion respecting them ? and why not treat them 
in all respects, as I would have done in the time of 
a revival ? — and why not expect the same results ? 

These were serious and troublesome questions to 
my own mind. By conversation with older and 
more experienced pastors, I aimed to get some 
instruction on this subject ; but all I could learn 
did not satisfy me, indeed it did not seem to do me 
the least good. I found I must teach myself what 
nobody appeared able to teach me. And, however 
just or unjust may have been the conclusion to 
which, by continued and intense reflection, my 
mind was at last brought ; I retain the same opinions 
now, after a score of years has passed away, which 
I formed at first. I believe those persons had their 



THE DATE OF CONVERSION, 121 

cast of mind through the influences of the Divine 
Spirit. Almost every one of those, to whose name 
T attached my private mark, within the space of 
two years became hopefully converted to Christ. 

I often visited them, conversed with them, and 
entreated them to be reconciled to God. And the 
greatest obstacle (as it seemed to me), that I had to 
encounter, was their uniform impression, that God 
had not given them the Holy Spirit, and that it 
would therefore be in vain for them to attempt to 
seek the Lord. It was an exceedingly difficult 
thing to convince any one of them, that the Holy 
Spirit was present, and that their serious impress- 
ions, and occasional fears, and occasional prayers, 
were the effects of a Divine influence, and the very 
substance of a Divine call. But I had myself been 
led to this conclusion. I thought that they them- 
selves ought to be convinced of this, and ought not, 
through ignorance and error, to be left to misim- 
prove the day of their merciful visitation, waiting 
for a revival of religion. In almost every instance, 
(indeed, I do not remember a single exception,) the 
commencement of an earnest and hoping attempt to 
gain salvation, originated in the conviction, which 
I strove hard to impress upon the mind, that the 
Holy Spirit was already striving with them, as really 
as if there was a revival all around. 

To the name of the woman whom I have men- 
6* 



122 THE DATE OF CONVERSION. 

tioned in this sketch, I attached my mystic mark 
the first time I ever saw her ; and to the name of 
her husband, the first time I ever saw him. And 
on this account, I was led to see them the more 
frequently. *I am very certain, that I was not at 
all the instrument of their conviction, (or that of the 
conviction of twenty more like them ;) whatever 
assistance in other respects, the truths which I 
uttered may have been to them, in leading them to 
Christ. Probably many, very many sinners, who 
never think of it, are visited by the Holy Spirit. 
Probably not a month passes, when there are not 
strivings of the Spirit with unconverted sinners in 
all our congregations. And if such sinners, instead 
of allowing every trifle of the world to dispel their 
serious thoughts, would only cherish them, conspir- 
ing with the Holy Spirit ; there is every reason to 
believe that they would become the happy children 
of God. Oh, if they but knew how near God is 
unto them, and how infinitely willing He is, in His 
kindness and love, to lead them into the ways of 
salvation ; they would not suffer these seasons of 
promise to pass by unimproved : especially the young, 
whose kindness of heart has not yet been all poi- 
soned, or all blasted by the world, would not so often 
turn a deaf ear to the still, small voice of the Spirit 

"Their happy song wcild oftener be, 
Hear what the Lore" has done for me." 



OR, CONSCIENCE IN TRADE. 

A young man, who at that time was almost an 
entire stranger to me, called upon me at a late hour 
in the evening, and, after some general conversation, 
said that he wished to talk with me in reference to 
a matter which had troubled him for some time. He 
came to me, as he said, because a few days before he 
had heard a member of a neighboring church railing 
against me, and among other things, saying that I 
was stern and severe enough for a slave driver. 
" So," says he, " I thought you would tell me the 
truth right out." 

He was a junior clerk in a dry goods store — a 
salesman. He had been in that situation for some 
months. He went into it a raw hand. His em- 
ployer had taken some pains to instruct him in its 
duties, and had otherwise treated him in a very kind 
manner. But he was expected, and indeed required 
to do some things which he " did not know to be 
quite right." He stated these things to me with 
minuteness and entire simplicity. He had been 



124 MY 01 D MOTHER. 

taught by his employer to do them, as a part of the 
" necessary skill to be exercised in selling goods," 
without which " no man could be a good salesman, 
or be fit for a merchant." 

For example, he must learn to judge by the ap- 
pearance of any woman who entered the store, by 
her dress, her manner, her look, the tone of her 
voice, whether she had much knowledge of the 
commodity she wished to purchase ; and if she had not, 
he must put the price higher, as high as he thought 
she could be induced to pay. If there was any 
objection to the price of an article he must say, " we 
have never sold it any cheaper," or, " w^e paid that 
for it, madam, at wholesale," or, " you cannot buy 
that quality of goods any lower in the city." With 
one class of customers he must always begin by- 
asking a half or a third more than the regular price, 
because, probably, through the ignorance of the 
customer, he could get it ; and if he could not, then 
he must put it at a lower price, but still above its 
value, at the same time saying, " that is just what 
we gave for it," or, " that is the very lowest at w^hich 
we can put it to you," or, " we would not offer it 
to anybody else so low as that, but we wish to get 
your custom." In short, a very large portion of the 
service expected of him was just this sort, and as 
I soon told him it was just to lw, for the purpose of 
cheating. 



MY OLD MOTHER. 125 

Whenever lie hesitated to practice in this manner 
behind the counter, his employer (ordinarily present) 
was sure to notice it, and sure to be dissatisfied with 
him. 

He had repeatedly mentioned to his employer his 
"doubts" whether "this was just right," -and "got 
laughed at." He was told, " everybody does it," 
" you can't be a merchant without it," " all is fair in 
trade," " you are too green." 

" I know I am green," said the young man to 
me, in a melancholy tone. "I was brought up in 
an obscure place in the country, and don't know 
much about the ways of the world. My mother is 
a poor woman, a widow woman, who was not able 
to give me much education ; but I don't believe she 
would think it right for me to do such things." 

" And do you think it right ?" said I. 

"No, — I don't know, — perhaps it may be. Mr. H." 
(his employer) " saj^s there is no sin in it, and he is 
a member of the church ; but I believe it would 
make my old mother feel very bad, if she knew I 
was doing such things every day." 

" I venture to say, that your mother has got not 
onl} r more religion, but more common seiase than a 
thousand like Mm. He may be a member of the 
church, the church always has some unworthy 
members in it, I suppose ; but he is not a man fit to 
direct you. Take your mother s way and refuse his." 



126 MY OLD MOTHER. 

" I shall lose my place,'' says he. 

" Then lose your place ; don't hesitate a moment." 

11 1 engaged for a year, and my year is not out." 

" No matter ; you are ready to fulfil your engage- 
ment. But what was your engagement ? Did you 
engage to deceive, to cheat and he ?" 

11 Oh, not at all." 

" Then certainly you need have no hesitation, 
through fear of forfeiting your place. If he sends 
you away, because you will not do such things for 
him, then you will know him to be a very bad man, 
from whom you may well be glad to be separated." 

" He says he will have his business done in the 
manner he chooses." 

" Very well : you have no objections to that; let 
him do his business in the way he chooses : but he 
has no right to make you use your tongue, in the way 
he chooses : and if he complains of you, because you 
do not choose to lie for him every hour in the day ; 
just tell him, that you have not hired out your con- 
science to him, and you will not be guilty of com- 
mitting any crimes for him. Ask him, if he expects 
you to steal for him, if he should happen to want 
you to do it." 

" When I told him I thought such things wrong, 
he said, ' that is my look out.' " 

" Tell him it is your look out, whether you please 
God, or offend Him — whether you do right or wrong 



MY OLD MOTHER. 127 

— whether you serve the God of truth, or the father 
of lies." 

" If I should say that, he would tell rue to be off." 

"Very well; be off then." 

n I have no place to go to ; and he knows it." 

" No matter ; go anywhere — do anything — dig 
potatoes — black boots — sweep the streets for a living, 
sooner than yield for one hour to such temptation." 

" He says, ' everybody does so,' and l no man can 
ever get along in the way of trade without it.' " 

" About everybody's doing so, I know better. 
That is not true. Some men are honest and truthful 
in trade. A man may be honest behind the counter, 
as easily as in the pulpit. But if a man can't be a 
merchant without these things, then he can't be a 
merchant and get to heaven ; and the sooner you 
quit that business the better." 

"And in respect to his declaration, that 'no man 
can get along in the way of trade without such prac- 
tices,' it is false — utterly false ! And I wish you to 
take notice of men now when you are young, as ex- 
tensively as you can, and see how they come out. 
You will not have to notice long, before you will 
be convinced of the truth of that h®mely old maxim, 
4 honesty is the best policy.' You will soon see, that 
such men as he, are the very men not to ' get along.' 
He will not ' get along' well a great while, if he does 
not alter his course." 



128 MY OLD MOTHER. 

" Oh, he is a keen fellow," said the young man 
smiling 

" So is old Satan a keen fellow ; but he is the 
greatest fool in the universe. His keenness has just 
ruined him. He is an eternal bankrupt, and can't 
4 take the benefit of the Act.' He is such a known 
liar, that nobody would believe him under oath. 
And your employer's keenness will turn out no bet- 
ter. He may, indeed, probably prosper here. Such 
men sometimes do. But the Bible has described 
him — 'they that will be rich, fall into temptation, 
and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts 
which drown men in destruction and perdition.' 
He i will be rich ;' that is what he wants ; his ■ will 
is all that way. And he has fallen into the ' tempta- 
tion' to lie, in order to get rich. And this is a 
1 snare' to him — it is a trap, and he is caught in it ; 
and if he does not repent and get out of it, he win 
be * drowned in destruction and perdition.' 

" But I was going to speak of his worldly pros- 
perity. I am no prophet, nor the son of a prophet. 
I do not believe, that Grod will work any miracles 
in his case. But I do believe, that man will fail I 
Mark him well ; and remember what I say, if you 
live to notice him ten or twenty ^years hence. In my 
opinion, you will see him a poor man ; and probably, 
a despised man." 



MY OLD MOTHER. 129 

11 What makes you think so?" said lie, with great 
astonishment. 

" Because he is not honest, — does not regard the 
truth. His lying will soon defeat its own purposes. 
His customers, one after another, and especially the 
best of them, will find him out, and they will forsake 
him, because they cannot trust his word. He will 
lose more than he will gain by all the falsehoods he 
utters. I know a dozen men in this city, some of 
them merchants, some butchers, some grocers, some 
tailors, whom I always avoid, and always will. If 
I know a man has lied to me once, in the way of his 
business, that ends all my dealings with him; I 
never go near him afterwards. Such is my prac- 
tice ; and I tell my wife so, and my children so. 
And sometimes, yea often, I tell them the names of 
the men. If any of my friends ask me about these 
men, I tell them the truth, and put them upon their 
guard. And thus their custom is diminished, be- 
cause their character becomes known. This is one 

reason why I think Mr. H will not prosper. 

- " But whatever the mode may be, his reverses 
will come : mark my words, they will come. God 
will make them come." 

With great depression, he replied, — " I don't know 
what I could do, if I should lose my place : I don't 
get but a little more than enough to pay my board, 
— my mother gives me my clothes, and if I lose 



ISO MY OLD MOTHER. 

my situation, I could not pay my board for a 
month." 

" Then," said I, " if you get so little, you will not 
lose much, by quitting. I do not pretend to know 

much about it, but in my opinion, Mr. H wrongs 

you, does you a positive injustice, and a cruel one, 
by giving you so little. And if you quit, and can- 
not pay your board till you get something to do, — 
tell me, — I will see to that." (He never had occa- 
sion to tell me.) 

"If I quit that place so soon," said the young 
man, "it will make my old mother feel very bad; 
she will think I am getting unsteady, or something 
else is the matter with me. She will be afraid that 
I am going to ruin." 

" Not a bit of it? said I. " Tell her just the truth, 
and you will fill her old heart with joy: she will 
thank God that she has got such a son, — and she 
will send up into heaven another prayer for you, 
which I would rather have than all the gold of 
Ophir." 

The young man's eyes filled with tears, and I let 
him sit in silence for some time. At length he said 
to me, — 

" I don't think I can stay there ; but I don't know 
what to do, or where to look." 

" Look to God first, and trust Him. Do you think 
He will let yoi sufer, because, out of regard to His 



MY OLD MOTHER. 131 

commandments, you liave lost your place? Never. 
Such is not His way. Ask Him to guide you." 

" I am pretty much a stranger here," said he, 
with a very dejected look ; "I know but few people, 
and I don't know where I could get anything to do." 

" For that very reason ask God to guide you. 
Are you accustomed to pray?" 

" Yes, I have been at times, lately. Some months 
ago, I began to try to seek the Lord, after I heard 
a sermon on that subject; and ever since that time, 
off and on, I have been trying. But I didn't know 
what to do in my situation." 

" Will jou. answer me one question, as truly and 
fully as you are able ?" 

"Yes, sir, if I think it is right for me to an- 
swer it." 

" The question is, has not your seriousness, and 
has not your trying to seek God, sometimes been 
diminished, just when you have had the most tempta- 
tion in the store, leading you to do what you thought 
wrong, — even if you did it for another ?" 

He sat in silence, apparently pondering the ques- 
tion for a few moments, and then replied, — ■ 

" Yes, — I believe it has." 

" ' Quench not the Spirit,' then," said I. I then 
entered into particular conversation with him about 
his religious feelings, and found that his convictions 
of sin, and his desires for salvation, had rendered 



132 MY OLD MOTHER. 

him for some weeks particularly reluctant tc con- 
tinue in an employment, where he felt obliged to 
practice so much deception. And I thought I could 
discover no little evidence in the history he gave me 
of his religious impressions, that the way of his daily 
business had been hostile to his attempts to come to 
repentance. And after I had plainly pointed out to 
him the demands of the gospel, and explained, as 
well as I could, the free offers of its grace and salva- 
tion, to all which he listened with intense attention 
and solemnity, he asked, — 

"What would you advise me to do about my 
business P 

"Just this: go back to your store, and do all 
your duties most faithfully and punctually, without 
lying. If your employer finds fault with you, ex- 
plain to him mildly and respectfully, that you are 
willing to do all that is right according to the law 
of God ; but that you cannot consent to lie for any- 
body. If he is not a fool, he will like you the bet- 
ter for it, and prize you the more ; for he will at 
once see, that he has got one clerk, on whose 
veracity he can depend. But if the man is as silly 
as he is unconscientious ; he will probably dismiss 
you before long. After that, you can look about 
you, and see what you can do. And, rely upon it, 
God will open a way for you somewhere. But first 
and most of all, repent and believe in Jesus Christ" 



MY OLD MOTHER. 133 

The young man left me, promising soon to see 
me again. He did see me. He was led to seek the 
Lord. He became a decided Christian. He united 
with the church. But he did not remain long in 
that store. His mode did not please his employer. 

However, he soon found another place. He 
established a character for integrity and prompt- 
ness, and entered afterwards into business for him- 
self. He prospered. He prospers still. It is now 
thirteen years since he came to me at that late hour 
in the evening ; and he is now a man of extensive 
property, — of high respectability, — has a family, — 
and is contented and happy. I often hear of him, 
as an active and useful member of a church not far 
distant. I sometimes meet with him. He is still 
accustomed to open all his heart to me, when we 
are together; and it is very pleasant for me to 
notice his engagedness in religion, his respectability 
and happiness. 

His employer became bankrupt about seven 
years after he left him, and almost as much bank- 
rupt in character, as in fortune. He still lives, I 
believe ; but in poverty, scarcely sustaining himself 
by his daily toil. 

I attribute this young man's integrity, conversion 
and salvation, to his "old mother," as he always 
fondly called her. But for the lessons which she 



134 MY OLD MOTHEn. 

instilled into his mind, and the hold which she got 
upon his conscience, before he was fifteen ; I do not 
believe I should ever have seen him. In my first 
interview with him, it was evident that the thought 
of his mother touched him more tenderly than any- 
thing else; and to this day, I scarcely ever meet 
him, and speak with him of personal religion, but 
some mention is made of his " old mother." 

The instance of this }^oung man has led me to 
think much of the dangers to which persons so 
situated are exposed ; and I think I find in his his- 
tory the clue to an explanation of a melancholy 
fact, that has often come under my notice. The 
fact to which I now refer is simply this, — that many 
young men are, at times, evidently the subjects of 
the alarming influences of the Holy Spirit, who, 
nevertheless, never become true Christians. And 
this young man's history goes far to convince me, 
that the Holy Spirit is quenched and led to depart 
from them, by some unconscientious proceedings in 
their business. If this young man had yielded to 
his employer, who can believe that he ever would 
have yielded to the Holy Spirit ? 

It was not strange that this young man should 
have felt a great anxiety about his earthly prospects 
and prosperity. He was poor. His " Old Mother" 
was poor. He had no friend to lean upon. In such 
a situation I could excuse his anxiety ; but, in such 



M Y OLD MOTHER. 135 

a situation, it was most sad, to have the influences 
which were around him every hour of the day, 
turning his anxiety into a temptation to sin. Be- 
fore I knew him, he had almost come to believe, 
that falsehood was a necessary thing in the transac- 
tion of business. He had noticed the eagerness of 
his employer to be rich. He had been sneered at 
and ridiculed as " too green," simply because he 
chose to act conscientiously ; and this was a trial 
and a temptation very dangerous for a young man 
to encounter. It was a difficult thing for me, with 
all I could say, to pluck him out of this snare of the 
Devil. And I deem it quite probable, that large 
numbers of our young men are kept from seeking 
God, by an undue anxiety about worldly things, — 
an anxiety, fostered and goaded on to madness, by 
the spirit, example and influence of their employers. 
By this unwise and uncalled-for anxiety to be rich, 
the heart is harassed, the conscience is beclouded 
by some smooth sophistry, the Holy Spirit is resist- 
ed, and heaven forgotten ; and all this, at that very 
.age, when the heart ought to be happj', and when, 
as the character is forming, it is most important 
that God's word and God's Spirit should not be un- 
heeded. By this anxiety to be rich the bright morn- 
ing of youth is overhung with dark clouds of care, 
and the immortal soul is grappled to the world as 
witl chains of iron ! No young man should feel 



136 M? DLD MOTHER. 

himself qualified or safe, in entering upon the busi- 
ness of the world, till his hope is fixed on Christ, 
and his unalterable determination is, to obey God, 
and gain heaven, whatever else he loses. And it 
would be well for every such young man, when sur- 
rounded by the influences of an eager and craving 
covetousness and its thousand temptations, to hold 
the world in check, and be led to prayer, by the re- 
membrance of his " Old Mother." 



#ne Wwti to a Sinner. 

I have known few seasons of greater coldness 
and less promise in respect to the prosperity of re- 
ligion, than was the time when a young woman 
called upon me, to ask what she should do to be 
saved. Her call somewhat surprised me. I had not 
expected it. I had never noticed any particular 
seriousness in her. But now, she was evidently 
very much awakened to a sense of her duty and 
danger, and was evidently in earnest in seeking the 
favor of God. 

After some conversation with her, and giving her 
such instruction as I thought adapted to her state of 
mind ; I asked what it was that had induced her to 
give her attention to the subject of religion now, any 
more than formerly. She replied, "it was what 
you said to me one evening, as we were coming out 
of the Lecture-room. As you took me by the hand, 
you said, l Mary, one thing is needful! You said no 
thing else, and passed on ; but I could not forget it." 
I had forgotten it entirely, but it had fastened one 
thought deep in hei mind. 



138 ONE W g R D TO A SINNER. 

The sermon, winch I had just preached, and to 
which she had listened, had been of no avail to her ; 
but she could not forget the personal address to her-, 
self, "Mary, one thing is needful." She is now, as 
I trust, in possession of that " one thing." 

How much more efficacious is a message than a 
proclamation — a personal than a public address — a 
letter than a newspaper. The one is to the heart, but 
the other scarcely appears designed for it. The one 
is to its, peculiarly, especially ; the other to every- 
body — to us indeed, as we form a part of the multi- 
tude, but that is very seldom what the heart wants 
or likes. One word to a sinner is often more effect- 
ual, than a score of sermons. Indeed, the secret of 
convicting sinners lies just in this — leading them to a 
personal application of the truth. 

Yet let us not despise sermons. They are the 
appointment of God, and the great means of con- 
version. The sermons, which Mary had heard, 
were probably the very things which prepared her 
to be awakened by a private word, and without 
which, that word, probably, would have been in 
vain. Still, it is quite probable that the sermons 
would have been in vain without that private and 
personal monition, " Mary, one thing is needful." 



"lUbotyi saft att|t|itijg to |gk" 

The title which. I have given to this sketch, is 
taken from the lips of a young man, who afterwards 
became a member of my church. He had called 
upon me for conversation upon the subject of his 
religious duty ; and after conversing with him, and 
saying such things to him as I thought appropriate 
to his state of mind, I asked him how it came about 
that he had not given his prayerful attention to the 
subject of religion before. 

" Nobody said anything to me," says he. 

" Yes," I replied, " / have said a great many 
things to 3 t ou." 

" I know you have in sermons ; but I mean, no- 
body said anything to me in particular, before 
yesterday." 

" Who said anything to you yesterday?" 

" Henry Clapp," said he, (naming a young man 
who had recently entertained a hope in God.) 

" What did Henry say to you?" 

"As I met him in the street," says he, "he 
stopped me, and told me he had something to say 



140 NOBODY SAID ANYTHING TO ME. 

to me, and asked me if lie might say it. I said 
yes, lie might. And then he said, l It is high time 
for yon to begin to seek the Lord.' " 

" And what did yon answer?" 

" I hardly had time to answer at all, for he passed 
right on. Bnt I said to him, when he had got a 
few feet from me, ' So it is. Henry.' He tnrned 
back his face partly toward me, looking oyer his 
shoulder, and answered, ' do it then? and went right 
on." 

"Have yon seen him since?" 

" No, sir." 

" Yon say, nobody said anything to yon before. 
If he, or some one else, had spoken to yon before, 
do you think you would have begun before ?" 

" I believe I should." 

Such was the opinion of this young man. To 
this opinion he adhered long after. The last time 
I spoke to him on that subject, he said to me that 
he believed he " should have sought the Lord years 
before, if anybody had spoken to him about it." 

Here, then, was a young man, living in the midst 
of a Christian community till he was more than 
twenty years old, a regular attendant at church, 
known to scores of Christian men and women ; and 
yet, "nobody said anything to him!" The first 
sentence that was uttered to him was not lost upon 
him. 



NOBODY SAID ANY THING TO ME. 141 

There are few points of duty more difficult for 
wise and engaged Christians to decide, than it is to 
decide what they shall say, or whether they shall 
say anything, to the irreligious persons whom they 
are accustomed to meet. Many times they are 
afraid to say anything to them on the subject of 
religion, lest they should do them an injury by 
awakening opposition or disgust. 

No man can teach them their duty. What may 
be the duty of one, may not be the duty of another 
The question depends upon so many things, upon 
character, upon intimacy, upon time, place, occasion, 
age, and a thousand other circumstances, that no 
wise man will ever attempt to lay down any general 
rule upon the subject. But if a Christian's heart 
longs for the conversion of sinners as it ought, he 
will not be likely to err. If he speaks to an uncon- 
verted sinner, in love, and alone, and without dis- 
putation, and in humility, and in the spirit of 
prayer, his words will do no harm. He may not be 
able to do good, but at least he can try. The un- 
converted in the midst of God's people, meeting 
them every day, their friends, their associates, and 
neighbors, certainly ought not to be able to declare, 
" nobody said anything to me," — " no man cared for 
my soul." 



Jfamilji frapr. 



A MAN of my congregation, about forty years of 
age, after quite a protracted season of anxiety, be- 
came, as lie hoped, a child of God. There was 
nothing in his convictions or in his hopeful conver- 
sion, so far as I could discern, of any very peculiar 
character, unless it was the distinctness of his re- 
ligious views and feelings. 

But this man did not propose to unite with the 
church, as I had supposed he would deem it his 
duty to do. One season of communion after another 
passed by, and he still remained away from the table 
of the Lord. I was surprised at this, and the more 
so on account of the steady interest in religion, and 
the fixed faith in Christ which he appeared to possess. 
I conversed plainly with him, upon the duty of a 
public profession of his faith. He felt it to be his 
duty, but he shrunk from it. He had a clear hope, 
was constant at church, was prayerful, bait he hesi- 
tated to confess Christ before men. All the ground 
of hesitation which I could discover as I conversed 
with him, was a fear that he might dishonor religion, 



FAMILY PRAYER. 143 

if he professed it, and a desire to have a more as- 
sured hope. What I said to him on these points 
appeared to satisfy him, and yet he stayed away 
from the Lord's table, though he said, u I should feel 
it a great privilege to be there." 

In aiming to discover, if possible, why a man of 
such clear religious views, of such apparent faith, 
and so much fixed hope in religion, should hesitate 
on a point of duty which he himself deemed obli- 
gatory upon him ; I learned, to my surprise, that he 
had never commenced the duty of family prayer, 
He felt an inexpressible reluctance to it — a reluctance 
for which he could not account. He wondered at 
himself, but still he felt it. He blamed himself, 
but still he felt it. This cleared up the mys- 
tery. I no longer wondered at all at his hesitation 
on the matter of an open profession of religion. 
I had not a doubt, but his fears of dishonoring re- 
ligion, and his waiting for greater assurance of hope, 
all arose from the neglect of family prayer. I told 
him so, and urged that duty upon him, as one that 
should precede the other. His wife urged it ; but 
yet he omitted it. Finally, I went to his house, and 
commenced fliat service with him. He continued it 
from that time, and from that time his difficulties 
all vanished. Before he united with the church, he 
said to me, " it was a great trial to me to commence 
praying with my family, but now it is my delight. 



144 FAMILY PRAYER. 

I would not omit it on any account. Since I have 
commenced it I find it a joyful duty. It comforts 
and strengthens me." He had now no hesitation in 
coming out before the world, and openly professing 
his faith in Christ. 

Neglect of one duty often renders us unfit for 
another. God l is a re warder,' and one great prin- 
ciple on which he dispenses his rewards is this— 
through our faithfulness in one thing he bestows 
grace upon us to be faithful in another. ' To him 
that hath shall be given, and he shall have abund- 
ance.' 



gactrhtes %uttVitilti: 

OR, FREEDOM AND SOVEREIGNTY. 

I casually met a member of my church in the 
raeet, and tlie nature of some conversation which 
was introduced, led him to ask me, if I recollected 
the conversation I had with him, at the time when 
he first called upon me for conversation upon the 
subject of religion. I had forgotten it entirely. He 
then referred to the period of his trouble, before he 
entertained any hope in Christ, and mentioned the 
particular subject about which he came to consult me. 
But I had no recollection of what I had said to him. 
He then stated the conversation in his own way, and 
I afterwards solicited of him the favor to write it 
down for me, which he kindly did, (omitting the 
name of the minister he mentioned,) and I here 
• transcribe it from his letter, which lies before me. 

" At a time when my thoughts were led, as I trust, 
by the Holy spirit, to dwell more than had been 
usual with me, on God and eternity in their rela- 
tions to myself, and I was endeavoring to get light 
from a more particular examination of the doctrines 
of the Bible than I had ever before made ; great dii- 

7 



146 DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 

Acuities were presented to my mind by the apparent 
inconsistency of one doctrine with another. I could 
believe them, each by itself; but could not believe 
them all together ; and so great did this difficulty 
become, that it seemed to me like an insuperable 
obstacle in a narrow path, blocking up my way, and 
excluding all hope of progress. But I was still led 
to look at this obstacle with a sincere desire, I be- 
lieve, for its removal. 

" While in this state of mind, a friend solicited 
me to converse with a minister of much experience 
and high reputation for learning. I visited him in 
his study, and was cordially invited to make known 
my feelings, with the promise of such assistance as 
he could render. I then asked, if he could explain 
to me how God could be the ever-present and ever- 
active sovereign of all things, controlling and direct- 
ing matter and spirit, and man be left free in his 
ways and choice, and responsible for aL lis actions. 
He replied, that he thought he could explain and re- 
move this difficulty ; and commenced a course of 
argument and illustration, the peculiar mode and 
nature of which I have now forgotten, but in which 
my untrained mind soon became utterly lost and 
confused, as in a labyrinth. And when, after his 
remarks had been extended many minutes, he 
paused, and asked if I now apprehended the matter; 
I felt obliged to confess to him that I did not 



DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 147 

understand anything about it. He then (without 
any discourtesy, however,) intimated that my mind 
was not capable of mastering a logical deduction of 
that nature ; and I retired somewhat mortified, and 
in much doubt whether the fault was in myself, the 
subject, or the reasoning I had heard. 

" A short time after this, I called upon another 
well-known minister, who had invited any to visit 
him who were desirous of conversing on religious 
subjects. After a little general conversation, I re- 
peated to him the same question that I had before 
addressed to the other minister, adding that I had 
been told that it could be clearly explained, and 
asking him if he could thus explain it to me. After 
a moment's pause he made this reply, — ' No, — nor 
any other man that ever lived. If any man says he 
can explain that, he says what is not true.' This 
short and somewhat abrupt answer, spoken with 
great emphasis, produced a remarkable effect upon 
my mind. A sense of the incomprehensibility of 
God seemed to burst upon me with great power. Hia 
doctrines now appeared to me as parts of His ways, 
and His ways as past finding out. I felt as if I had sud- 
denly and almost violently been placed on the other 
side of the obstruction, which, with others of its kind, 
had blocked up my path. And although they were 
still there, and still objects of wonder and admira* 
tion, they were no longer in the way. 



148 DOCTLINES RECONCILED. 

11 After a few moments, my instructor added, that 
he thought he could convince me of the truth of the 
the two doctrines I had named in connection ; and 
by a short and simple course of argument, beginning 
with God as the Author of all things, he made more 
clear and distinct to my apprehension the entire 
sovereignty of God over all His works ; and also on 
the other point, beginning with every man's con- 
sciousness of freedom of will, he showed me the in- 
disputable evidence on which that truth rests. And 
then alluding to the axiom, that all truth is consist- 
ent with itself, and separate truths with each other, 
he left the subject to my reflections. 

" I may be permitted to add, that I do not pre- 
tend to judge of the wisdom of the modes adopted 
by these two ministers, as applied to other minds 
fchan my own, — but in my own case I very well 
know, that the most labored reasonings and explana- 
tions could not have been half as effectual in resolv- 
ing my difficulty, as that plain, direct answer before 
quoted. 

" Although years have elapsed since these conver- 
sations occurred, the one last mentioned is still vivid 
in my memory, and its permanent usefulness to 
me is frequently realized, when vain speculations 
on subjects not to be understood intrude themselves 
upon my mind." 



DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 149 

Things hidden belong to God : things revealed be- 
long to us. Little is gained by attempting to invade 
the province of God's mysteries. Every man will 
attempt it. Such is human nature. Mind will not 
willingly stop at the boundaries, which God has 
for the present prescribed for it. But in vain will it 
strive to overpass them. ' We know in part. When 
that which is perfect is come, then that which is in 
part shall be done away.' 

There is one great reason why we cannot know 
everything — simply because we are not God. The 
only real religious utility, which grows out of the 
attempt to understand things not revealed to us, is 
to be found in the fact that such an attempt may 
humble us: it may show us what inferior beings 
we are, how ignorant, how hemmed in on every 
side; and thus compel us to give God His own 
high place, infinitely above us, and hence infinitely 
beyond us. 

If I am not mistaken, those men, those ministers, 
who so strenuously aim to vindicate God's ways to 
. man, to make clear what God has not revealed, do, 
in fact, degrade our ideas of God more than they il- 
luminate our understandings. They make God ap- 
pear not so far off, not so much above us. If they 
suppose that they have shed any light upon those 
unrevealed things which belong to God, it is quite 
probable that they suppose so, very much because 



150 DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 

they have levelled down his character and ways to- 
wards the grade of their own. Thus they may lead 
us to pride, but not to humility ; they have not 
brought us nearer to God, but have done something 
to make us feel that God is very like one of our- 
selves ; they have not given us more knowledge, but 
convinced us (erroneously,) that we are not quite so 
ignorant and limited after all. This is an unhappy 
result. It would be better to have the opposite one, 
to make us feel that God is God, and therefore in- 
scrutable. l He holdeth back the face of his throne 
and spreadeth his cloud upon it.' Better far to show 
a sinner ' the cloud,' and hold his eye upon it, and 
make him stand in awe, and feel his own ignorance 
and insignificance, than to make him think (errone- 
ously,) that there is no 'cloud' there. 

Somewhere the human mind must stop. We can- 
not know everything. Much is gained when we be- 
come fully convinced of this ; and something more 
is gained when we are led to see clearly the line, 
which divides the regions of our knowledge from 
the regions of our ignorance. That dividing line 
lies very much between facts and modes. The facts 
are on the one side of it, the modes are on the other. 
The facts are on our side, and are matters of know- 
ledge to us (because suitably proved) ; the modes are 
on GocCs side, and are matters of ignorance to us 
(because not revealed). " How" God could be an 



DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 151 

efficient and sovereign Kuler over all things and yet 
man be free to will and to do, was the question 
which troubled this young man, when he first began 
to seek God. It was not a question of fact, but of 
mode, ( u how?"), and therefore, not a thing of duty ; 
and therefore, a thing of difficulty to him, if he chose 
to meddle Avith it. 

Now what should I say to him ? It seemed to me, 
to be at once honest and wise to tell him the plain 
truth, — " No, — nor any other man ; no man ever did 
explain it, or ever will. If any man says he can ex- 
plain it, he says what is not true. 11 That was the 
fit answer, because the true one. The young man 
in his account of that answer, very politely calls it 
11 somewhat abrupt ;" but he might very justly have 
called it by a less gentle name, blunt. In my opin- 
ion, that was the very excellence of it — that is the 
reason why the answer answered its purpose. It 
was the truth condensed and unmistakable. At a 
single dash it swept away his army of difficulties. 
It showed him that he had been laboring at an im- 
possibility — at a thing beyond man — a thing with 
which he had nothing to do, but believe it and let 
it alone, and let God take care of it. He says, " a 
sense of the incomprehensibility of God seemed to 
burst upon me with great power. His doctrines 
now appeared to me as parts of His ways, and His 
ways as past finding out." Again he says, "the 



152 DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 

most labored reasonings and explanations cc aid not 
have been half as effectual in resolving my difficulty, 
as that plain, direct answer." Its excellence con- 
sisted in this — it was plain, just the whole, blunt 
truth. He says it was " permanently useful," to 
keep him from " vain speculations." Its utility was 
just this : it led him to give God the place which 
belongs to Him, and take his own. 

His trouble undoubtedly was, that he could not 
see " how" the doctrines he mentioned were recon- 
cilable. But they did not need any reconciling. 
They do not quarrel. God is an efficient sovereign 
over all. That is one of the doctrines ; and it was 
easily demonstrated to his entire satisfaction. Any- 
body can demonstrate it. Man is free and account- 
able. That is the other doctrine ; and it was easily 
demonstrated. Anybody can demonstrate it. Both 
the doctrines are true, therefore, and hence they need 
no reconciling. There is no inconsistency betwixt 
them. That is enough. 

If any one choose to atttempt to go beyond this, 
and by any metaphysical explanation of God's sov- 
ereign efficiency on the one hand, and man's freedom 
on the other, explain " how " the two things can be 
true, ho will flounder in the mud — lie will ; darken 
counsel by words without knowledge.' 

An unconverted sinner is not reconciled to God, 
and this is the very reason why he is not reconciled 



DOCTRINES RECONCILED. 153 

to the doctrines of God. In my opinion these doc- 
trines ought always to be presented in such a man- 
ner as to indicate their high origin, as to show they 
are like God. Then, an unconverted sinner will be 
apt to see that he dislikes the doctrines, just because 
he dislikes God ; and thus his convictions of an evi] 
heart will become more fixed and clear ; or, at least, 
he will perceive that the doctrines are just such as 
he ought to expect, because they precisely accord 
with their Infinite Author. Let him be reconciled 
to God, and he Trill find little trouble with the doc- 
trines. But let him be reconciled to God as He is, 
an incomprehensible sovereign, an infinite mystery 
to a finite mind, ' the high and lofty One, who in- 
habiteth eternity.' If he is reconciled to false 
notions of God, all his religion will be likely to be 
false. A comprehensible God is no God at all, for 
what is comprehensible is not infinite. Let men 
beware of ' intruding into those things which they 
have not seen, vainly puffed up with their fleshly 
mind.' 



I Can't frag: 

OR, THE TWO SISTERS. 

I happened to be seated in the library of a liter- 
ary Institution with an intimate friend, when two 
young ladies entered the room, whom he introduced 
to me as sisters, who had come from a distant State 
to be pupils under his care. I had never heard of 
them before. The elder one appeared to be about 
twenty years of age, and the other, perhaps two 
years younger. My friend was soon called out of 
the room for a few moments, and I was left alone 
with them. I thought the opportunity too good 
to be lost, and felt it to be my duty to speak to 
them, on the subject of their salvation. In a brief 
conversation upon common topics, which I en- 
deavored to shape in such a manner as to prepare 
the way for my design, I was much pleased with 
them. I thought they manifested more than an 
ordinary share of talent, and I was particularly 
pleased with the frankness and simplicity of their 
manners, and more than all with their manifest sis- 
terly affection. 



i can't pray. 155 

I inquired whether they were members of any 
church. They were not. "'And do you think you 
are yet living without any religion ?" said I. " We 
are not Christians, " was the answer. Their mother 
was a member of the church, and they told me that 
they had themselves " studied religion," as they ex- 
pressed it, " a great deal," and "thought about it 
very often," but they said, " we are not Christians." 
"And why not?" said I. The question appeared 
to confuse them a little, and I endeavored to relieve 
their embarrassment by some general remarks, such 
as demanded no specific reply. I asked. permission 
to call and see them. 

A little more than a week afterwards I had an 
interview with them. I was still more pleased with 
them than I had been before. They were frank, 
gentle, simple-hearted, and without affectation. But 
in respect to their religious inclinations I found little 
to please me, and still less in respect to their religious 
opinions. Their minds appeared to be stored with a 
species of metaphysical ideas on the subject of re- 
ligion, which I could not reconcile to the Bible or 
to common sense, but to which they tenaciously 
adhered, as being in accordance with the teachings 
which they had always heard from the pulpit. As 
I entreated them to give their attention to their sal- 
vation immediately, all I could say appeared to be 
warded off, or its truth rendered vain by a single 



156 i can't pray. 

idea. That idea would constantly come out m some 
such question as " how can we seek God with such 
hearts ?" or, " how can we do anything without the 
Holy Spirit?" or, " what can we do if Grod does not 
give us the right motives ?" This was their one 
difficulty. They maintained with true metaphysical 
courage and acumen, that they could do nothing, 
and any attempt to seek the Lord must be useless, 
because their hearts were wrong, and they could not 
therefore " seek Him with the right feelings," as 
they expressed it. No act, no attempt, no thought of 
theirs, " could possibly be acceptable to Him," or of 
" any avail " for themselves. They clung to this 
idea constantly and tenaciously. 

I supposed at first, that this was only a casual 
thought which had occurred to them ; but in a 
second interview, I found them just the same as in 
the first. The idea which hindered them from any 
serious attempt in religion, had become interwoven 
with all their religious thoughts and feelings, — had 
been entertained so long and employed so often, 
that now it came up spontaneously, and spread itself 
over every thought about personal religion. They 
presented it so naturally, so easily, and in such varied 
shapes and connections, that I began to despair of 
having any influence over them. However, I re- 
solved to try. 

I took care to assure them of the deep interest 1 



I CAN'T PRAT 157 

took in them already, which. I certainly could do 
with entire sincerity, for they had won my esteem, 
and it made me sad of heart to see two such esti- 
mable girls entangled in the snares of such a decep- 
tion. I aimed to win their confidence ; and before 
I left them, having now learned their cast of mind, 
and their peculiar religious difficulty, I assured them 
most affectionately that they were mistaken in many 
of their notions, and that they certainly might find 
the favor of God, if they would seek it in the Bible 
way. To give some practical point and direction to 
their thoughts, I desired them to read carefully and 
with prayer the fifty -fifth chapter of Isaiah, as proof 
of the truth of what I told them, and especially as a 
specimen of the manner, in which their heavenly 
Father calls to them and counsels them in His in- 
finite ' kindness and love.' They both promised to 
read it, but I noticed that they did not promise to 
pray over it, as I had requested them to do. 

They were very much alike in all their ideas 
about religion. Their hindrance was the same. I 
resolved, therefore, to converse with each one sepa- 
rately after this, because I perceived that they 
mutually hindered each other; — for when one of 
them would say, " I can't seek the Lord with such a 
heart," the other would often reiterate the same idea 
in some other form, manifestly supported and con- 
firmed in her strange notion. Urged separately to 



158 i can't pray. 

attend to their salvation, I hoped their error might 
be corrected. And as I had discovered a greater 
susceptibility, as I thought, in the younger sister, I 
determined to commence with her. 

Consequently, I soon afterwards called upon her, 
and asked to see her alone. She met me very 
affectionately. But I had scarcely uttered a single 
sentence in respect to her duty, before she asked 
suddenly, and with much animation, — 

" Shall I call my sister?" 

" Oh, no," said I, " I wish to see you alone. You 
may say some things which I should not wish your 
sister to hear." 

This reply appeared to give her some little con- 
fusion, mingled with sadness ; but she made no ob- 
jections to my proposal, and soon recovered her 
composure. I urged her to her religious duty, as 
faithfully and affectionately as I could. She listened 
to me apparently with candor and with some emo- 
tion, as in the language of Scripture I enjoined upon 
her repentance, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ 
for justification unto life eternal. But the old hin- 
drance was still in her way. The following is a 
part of our conversation : 

" I suppose you are convinced of the necessity of 
religion?" 

" Oh, yes, sir! I know its necessity but I do not 
feel it, — I cannot feel it." 



I CAN'T PRAY. 159 

11 Do }'ou feel, that you are a sinner, — without 
Christ, an undone sinner, and have a wicked heart 
opposed to God ?" 

" I knoiv I am ; but I don't feel it as much as I 
ought to." 

II What do you mean by saying, ' as much as you 
ought to?' " 

" I mean, not enough to be able to seek the Lord, 
or repent." 

" Are you really giving any definite attention to 
your duty towards God, to your salvation ?" 

" At times, I have thought about it a great deal." 

" Are you willing to seek the Lord now, in obe- 
dience to His word, and as well as you know 
how?" 

II I have felt for a long time, that I should like to 
be a Christian ; but it is rather the conviction of my 
head than the feeling of my heart. My reason 
teaches me it is wise to make my peace with God ; 
but I suppose such has not been the desire of my 
heart. My attention has been called to the subject 
very seriously, and I have felt it deeply at times ; 
but the Spirit has forsaken me, and I have gone 
farther off than ever. Once I could have given my 
heart to God a great deal easier than I could now," 
said she, with deep sadness. 

"I have no doubt," said I, "that is true, entirely 
true. It has become more difficult for you, and will 



160 i can't pray. 

be tlie more difficult still, the longer you delay. 
You ought to seek the Lord now" 

U EI could seek Him, sir, with an acceptable 
heart, I would not neglect it." 

" And so, becoming worse and worse, going far- 
ther and farther off, you let your life run on, 
living without God and without hope, making 
no attempt to gain eternal life. My dear girl, 
this is ail wrong. Salvation is to be sought, — - 
if there is an item of truth in the Bible, it is 
to be sought. You may obtain it, if you will. 
Salvation is offered to you, — it is free, — it is fully 
within your reach ; the gospel calls to you. If you 
will seek God with all your heart, I know you will 
not seek in vain. God has said this to you to in- 
duce you to seek Him : l Hear, and your soul shall 
live. I will make an everlasting covenant with 
you. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the 
unrighteous man his thoughts, 7 — (you think wrong, 
remember,) — ' and let him return unto the Lord, 
and He will have mercy upon him, and to our God, 
for He will abundantly pardon.' And all this, God 
says to you, and says it just in connection with his 
command, ' Seek ye the Lord, call ye upon Him.' 
You must seek Him. You must turn to Him with 
repentance and prayer. He gives you the fullest 
encouragement to do so. Let his word sink deep 
into your heart, my dear girl : { Then shall ye go 



i can't pray. 161 

and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you ; 
and ye shall seek me, and ye shall find me, when 
ye shall search for me with all your heart, and I 
will be found of you.' That is the way which the 
God of all love calls on you to take in order to be 
saved ; and you do not obey Him ; you are not 
trying to obey Him I" 

" Why, sir, I have been taught, that I must sub- 
mit to God first, or He will not hear any prayer I 
could make. I have heard my minister say so." 

" I am not teaching you, not to submit to God (as 
you call it). He commands you to seek Him, and 
tells you how to do it, and I want you to ' submit' 
to His command." 

"I think," said she, "that praying before sub- 
mitting to God, would only be hypocrisy." 

" Then you should do both. He certainly com- 
mands you to pray? 

" Not with such a heart as / have got," said she, 
emphatically, and with an air of triumph. 

" Yes, He does" said I. " Here is His command 
. in the Bible, — it is addressed to you, — to every sinner 
on earth, — ' Call ye upon Him while He is near.' 
He does, indeed, command you also to repent ; but if 
you choose not to repent, that sin does not alter His 
command to you to pray. His command lies on just 
fluch a heart as you have this moment. Your im- 
penitence and unbelief are no excuse for you." 



162 i can't pray. 

" How can I have any power to pray to Him, and 
seek Him rightly ?" 

" The Bible answers your question : l to as many 
as received Him, to them gave He power to become 
the sons of God.' The Bible offers Christ to you, a 
guilty sinner. You are to receive Him as your own 
Saviour, in order to have c power' to become a child 
of God. You are to l deny yourself, and take up 
your cross and follow Christ.' " 

"But," said she, with much agitation, "I cannot 
ash God to receive me as His child. I cannot plead 
with my whole heart for His blessing, as I would 
ask my earthly father for a gift which he could 
bestow." 

" Do you never pray ?" 

" No, I never prayed. It seems to me it would be 
nothing but mockery for me to pray. I can't pray." 

" You cannot be saved without prayer. If you 
will not ask God's blessing, you cannot have it. 
1 Ask, and ye shall receive,' is God's direction and 
promise. You foolishly invert the order, and thus 
1 handle the word of God deceitfully,' hoping to l re- 
ceive' first, and then ' ask.' If you would be saved, 
my dear girl, you must do as God bids you." 

" But I caret ash with all my heart, and anything 
short of that would be as bad as sacrilege." 

"You are wrong, my child, — all wrong. It is 
true you ought to seek the Lord with all your heart, 



i can't pray. 163 

as he requires ; but it is not true, that your praying 
is worse than neglecting prayer, and it is not true, 
that you ha T , e any ground to expect His blessing 
iefore you a ( .k it. You think wrong. l Let the 
wicked forsake his thoughts.' You and God do 
not think alike. Your false notions hinder you from 
becoming & Christian. God commands you to seek 
Him by prayer. You may think what you will 
about l mockery,' still He tells you to pray, in order 
to your being saved ; and while you do not pray, 
you do not take the way which His mercy points 
out to you." 

11 1 canH pray" says she, with an accent of vexa- 
tion and despair. 

" You say you can't pray," said I. " God thinks 
you can. Just as soon as He has said to you, i Seek 
ye the Lord,' He goes on to tell you how to seek 
Him, — c call ye upon Him.' He thinks you can 
pray. In that passage He tells you to pray even be- 
fore He tells you to repent. { Call ye upon Him' 
comes first : it stands before the command to repent, 
— l let the wicked forsake his way.' God knows 
that if you do not pra} r , you will not repent. I do 
not say that you ought to pray with an impenitent 
heart, but I say you ought to pray, be your heart 
w T hat it may. And what an awfully wicked heart 
you must have, if you cannot even pray." 

u Oh, I can't pray, I have such a heart 1" 



164 i can't pray. 

11 Yon refuse to pray, because you have sueli an 
evil lieart. That evil heart is the very reason why 
you have need to pray the more earnestly. Your 
evil heart, instead of being an argument against 
prayer, is the strongest of all 230ssible reasons why 
you should pray. You infinitely need God's help, 
and you should ask for it." 

" I canH pray ! It would be hypocrisy !" 

" Perhaps it w r ould ; but it is rebellion to neglect it." 

" Well, hypocrisy is worse, sir." 

" I do not know that ; in such a case as this," said 
I, "if you pray with such a heart as you have now, 
you will at least try to obey God in the form ; but 
if you do not pray at all, you are a rebel both in 
heart and outward conduct. "Which is the worst — 
to try and come short, or to stand here before God 
and say you will not try at all ?" 

With vexation of spirit she replied, "I can't pray; 
my heart is all wrong." 

" How do you expect to get a better one ?" 

" I know God must give me a new heart, if I ever 
have it." 

u Do you want Him to give you a new heart?" 

" Oh sir, I wish he would" said she, weeping. 

" Why then don't you tell Him so, in earnest 
prayer?" 

" I can't pray, it would be insincere." 

" Are you insincere to me, when you tell me with 



i can't pray 165 

§o much emotion, you ' wish. God vould give you a 
new heart?' Do you tell me what is not true?" 

" Oh, no sir I' 1 said she earnestly, "I hope you 
don't think I would utter a falsehood to you?" 

"Not at all, my friend; but if }~ou spoke the 
truth, you do sincerely wish God would give you a 
new heart. Where then would be the insincerity of 
telling Him so ; of asking Him for what you sincerely 
desire?" 

She paused a long time, pondering this question, 
apparently with mingled thoughtfulness and vexa- 
tion ; at length she replied, — 

"I can't pray, I have not the right motives." 

" How do you expect to get the right motives?" 

" I never shall have, if God does not put them 
into my heart !" 

" Do you want Him to put them into your heart ?" 

"Yes, I do, above all things," said she, earnestly. 

" Why then don't you ask Him ? If you are sin- 
cere in wanting Him to do so, you can sincerely ask 
Him to do so." 

• " But I can't pray, sir ; the prayers of the wicked 
are an abomination to the Lord." 

" So you say," said I. 

"Does not the Bible say so, sir?" 

" No, my child, nowhere." 

"Why, sir, I thought it did." 

" It does not. It says, ' the sacrifice of the wick- 



166 I CAN'T PRAY. 

ed is an abomination to the Lord,' but the meaning 
of that is, that when the wicked offer sacrifice, and 
at the same time do not intend to abandon their 
wickedness, it is an abomination." 

" Well, sir, the Bible requires good motives." 

" Certainly it does ; and it requires you to pray 
to God, i create in me a clean heart, and renew a right 
spirit within me. 7 You need good motives, and for 
that very reason you should pray." 

" But I canH pray. It is not prayer, such as the 
Bible demands, if I should ask God for another heart." 

Said I, u The common complaint of the Bible 
against sinners is not, that they pray with bad mo- 
tives ; but that they do not pray at all. It censures 
the wicked, because they ' cast off fear, and restrain 
prayer,' as you do ; while it makes promises to 
those who seek God by prayer." 

" I never prayed," said she, with manifest fear and 
vexation of spirit. " / can't pray, till I have the 
right feelings." 

u You must pray, my dear girl, in order to get tie 
right feelings. So the Bible teaches you, and you 
pervert it. You say you must have the right feel- 
ings first The Bible tells you to pray for them, if 
you would ever have them. In Jeremiah, xxix. 12, 
13, God says, l Then shall ye call upon me, and ye 
shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto 
you ; and ye shall seek me and find me, when ye 



i can't pray. 167 

shall search for me with all your heart ; and I will 
be found of yon, saith the Lord. 7 The praying, the 
seeking, is first The finding comes afterwards. 
c Ask, and ye shall receive,' sa} r s God. 'Give to 
me, and then I will ask,' is your answer." 

" But, sir, I certainly have no heart to pray. I 
can't pray! God would frown on any prayer I 
could offer." 

" So you say, but He has not said so. He will 
frown upon your refusing to pray. It seems to me 
perfectly clear, that God is far more kind to you 
than you think Him, more kind than you are to 
yourself. He says to you, in your weakness and 
all your want, L In me is thy help.' You demand 
of your poor heart to be holy first, before it can have 
any encouragement at all, even to pray for help. 
Your cold heart does him an injustice. He is more 
kind than that. He encourages jou to come to 
Him, and call upon Him, with just such a needy and 
imperfect heart, as you have this moment, to come 
to Him by Christ in all your unworthiness and fear, 
and tell Him your wants, and beg for mercy and 
Divine assistance. He stands ready to hear you, to 
forgive and love you, and bestow upon you that 
better heart you long for, if you v>dll ask. And you 
abuse His kindness by your unbelief. He is far 
better than you think Him. He invites you to 
come to Him in Christ Jesus, and ask Him what 



168 

you will. You demand of your poor heart more 
(in one sense,) tlian God demands of it. You de- 
mand of it faith and holiness aside from any Divine 
help, and without prayer ; while he offers you help, 
to aid you to holiness and faith. I do not under- 
stand him, as inviting you to Christ, only after you 
have a good heart, but as inviting you now, just as 
you are." 

" Oh !" said she, quite overcome with her emo- 
tions, " I wish I had a right to come." 

" What do you mean, my dear girl ? You talk 
inconsistently, absurdly. You want a right heart 
first, and then you will consent to pray for a right 
heart." 

"I know, sir, my mind is wrong; but it does 
seem to me, I cannot pray with such a heart." 

" That is only a deceitful excuse. If you do not 
love to have such a heart, you will pray God to give 
you a better one." 

"Oh, I am such a sinner! How can such a 
creature pray ?" 

" Others just like you have prayed, and God has 
answered them. You can do the same thing, if you 
/rill." 

"But my very heart is too wicked!" 

a You do not more than half believe what you 
say. If you really believed you had such a wicked 
heart, you would cry for mercy with all your might." 



I CAN'T PRAY. 169 

44 1 would pray " said she, " if I had such motives 
that God would hear me." 

" That is the very essence of self-righteousness," 
said I. " You expect to be answered, not because 
you shall have cried, ' God be merciful to me a 
sinner ;' but because you shall have gone to God 
with such good motives, with a heart so much bet- 
ter, that he will hear and answer you on that 
account You wish to be able to stand up and offer 
the Pharisee's prayer, . ' God, I thank thee that I am 
not as other men are. 7 You are unwilling to be the 
poor publican, and smite on j^our breast, despairing 
of your wicked heart, and ciy, ' God, be merciful to 
me a sinner.' You won't consent to be a beggar. 
Your heart is too full of pride and self- righteousness 
to consent to let you be an infinite debtor to Divine 
mercy, as an undone and helpless sinner." 

" Why, sir," said she with amazement, " do you 
think I am self-righteous ?" 

" I know you are. You have shown it in almost 
every sentence you have uttered for the last half 
hour. You justify yourself. You justify your 
prayerlessness even. You think to pray with such 
good motives, some time or other, as to meet ac- 
ceptance. Eejecting Christ, you rely on the good 
motives you hope to have, as the ground of your ac- 
ceptance. And that is all self-righteousness." 

Mter a solemn pause she asked, — 
8 



170 i can't prat. 

" What shall I do ? I am undone i" 

" Seek the Lord," said I, " call upon Him ; fly to 
Christ, as you are — remember, as you are? 

" WiWKehearme?" 

" Yes ; He says He will. ' Ask, and ye shall re- 
ceive.' Believe His promise of the - Holy Spirit to 
them that ask Him.' You have no need to be hin- 
dered, my dear child, for an hour. Give God your 
heart as it is. Go to Him as }^ou are, a poor, undone 
sinner, and beg for mercy. And believe He will not 
cast you off. God loves you, and waits to save you. 
He offers you all the benefits of the blood of atone- 
ment and of the aids of the Holy Spirit — ' the Holy 
Spirit to them that ask Him] remember. And what 
more can your wicked heart need ?" 

She seemed to be melted into tenderness. 

" And now, my dear girl, will you pray ? Will 
you begin this night ?" 

" I ought to," said she trembling. 

"Then, wHLjostf" 

11 Yes, sir, I will" said she emphatically. 

" Good-bye," said I, and instantly left her. 

During this interview she became greatly troub- 
led. Evidently she was tost with conflicting emo- 
tions. She began to perceive that her excuse of a 
wicked heart would not answer her purpose ; and at 
times I thought her affectionate disposition on the 
very point of yielding to the kindness of God. 



I C IN'T PRAY. 171 

I now had some hope that she would seek the 
Lord. She had promised to pray, and thus had 
yielded the very point in which all her opposition 
practically centered. But on considering the whole 
matter more carefully that evening at home, I came 
to the conclusion that she would not pray as she 
had promised ; but that when she was alone, the 
influence of her old difficulty would return upon 
her and overthrow the urgency of all that I had 
said. 

Early the next morning, therefore, I called upon 
her. She was taken by surprise. Said I, — 

" Did you pray last night, my dear girl ?" 

Her eyes filled with tears. She was silent. (She 
told me some days afterwards, " I felt my very heart 
sick within me, the moment you asked me if I had 
prayed.") I repeated the question, — 

" My child, did you keep your promise ? Did 
you pray last night?" 

Her whole frame was agitated. The question 
seemed to pierce her heart. 

" " No sir, I did not I" said she faintly, and covered 
her face in her handkerchief, in convulsive agony. 

II And why not? Why didn't you pray ? You 
make my very heart sorry, when you tell me you 
neglected it !" 

" I did try," said she weeping ; " I did try. I 
kneeled down, but I could not open my lips to utter 



172 I CAN'T PRAY. 

one word ! My heart was so cold and wicked, I did 
not dare to speak one word to my heavenly Father." 

" Your heart is far more wicked than you think ; 
and if you wait to make it better, you will wait for- 
ever! But God is a thousand-fold more merciful 
and kind than you think. Give yourself to Him. 
Just trust to Christ, bad as your heart is." 

" Oh, sir, it is hard to learn to trust I I have 
tried to trust myself in Christ's hands. How can I 
trust?" 

" Suppose," said I, " you were here on this island, 
and you knew the island was going to sink under 
you, and you must get off or sink with it, and you 
could do nothing at all to save yourself, and then a 
boat should come to save you, and you had every 
reason to believe it would hold you up from sinking 
and take you off safely, and land you where you 
wanted to go, — would it be ' hard to trust' to it ? 
No, no ; you would instantly go on board and stay 
on it, and take care not to fall off. You would trust 
it willingly, fully, joyfully. Just so commit your- 
self, a helpless sinner, to Christ, and not sink into 
perdition. He will take you, and land you safe in 
heaven, if you will ask Him and trust Him." 

" I am afraid I have not such a sense of my sin, 
as to seek God earnestly.' 1 '' 

" What, then, will you do?" 

" I don't know, unless I wait for it" 



I can't PRAY. 1*73 

" And will you get it by waiting ?" 

" I suppose," said slie, " a just sense of sin is the 
gift of the Holy Spirit," 

" I suppose so, too ; and therefore you must pray 
for the Holy Spirit. It is promised as a gift to them 
that ask. You are not to wait. l Behold, now is 
the day of salvation.' Give your bad heart to God." 

I left her more solemn and docile than ever be- 
fore. Her stout heart trembled. 

The next day but one, I called upon her. She 
was in her class. I sent for her to meet me in a 
private room. I asked her,— 

" Have you trusted yourself to Christ yet?" 
She shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears. 
" What have you been waiting for ?" 
" Oh, my dear friend, I don't know. It seems as 
if I cannot offer myself to God in such a manner that 
He will accept me. I try with all my power. But 
my thoughts wander when I try to pray. My heart 
is all unbelief and sin !" 

" You must pray for God's help, and trust Him to 
help you." 

II Oh, sir, if I go to God I am afraid He will not 
accept me. There never v;as such a sinner." 

11 You need not fear an item, my dear friend. He 
has promised to accept you. Go to Him by faith in 
his Son for all you want. His very throne shall 
crumble, sooner than you shall be cast off." 



174 i can't pray. 

I left her in tears, apparently m a subdued and 
tender agitation. 

Four days afterwards I saw lier again. She met 
me with a smile of gladness. 

" Oh, I am glad you have come. I have wanted 
to see you very much." Grasping my hand, she 
began to speak to me of her feelings, — " I want to 
tell you a great many things about myself," but her 
emotions choked her utterance. I asked her,- — 

" Can you pray now, my dear girl ?" 

" Oh, yes, I can pray now with my whole heart 
But, sir, it seems to me I do not come fully to 
Christ, though I know I want to." 

" Do you still love sin and the world too much to 
give them up for Christ ?" 

" No, sir, I think not," said she, solemnly. 

" There may be some darling sin you do not re- 
nounce. Perhaps you love the world too well. 
Weigh well the matter. Count the cost. ■ Choose 
this day whom you will serve.' If you choose 
the world, it will cheat you. If you choose the God 
of love, He will save you." 

" I do want to be a Christian," said she, tenderly. 
" I pray my God for this with all my heart." 

M And what has made you so much more earnest ?" 

" I have felt so ever since I heard your sermons 
on the text, l Go thy way for this time.' I was 
afraid I was like Felix, to tremble and yet delay." 



i can't pray. 175 

u Do you intend to delay ?" 

"No sir, indeed, I do not intend to," said she, the 
tears gushing from her eyes. 

The next morning I found her in deep solemnity. 
Her weeping eyes told of her agitated heart. I 
asked, — 

" Are you willing now to give up all and follow 
Christ?" 

" Oh, sir," said she, with the utmost earnestness, 
/ do not think there is any other desire in my heart, ex- 
cept that I may be a Christian." 

"Do you now love God?" 

With some thoughtful hesitation she replied, — - 

" I am afraid, sir, to venture an answer to that 
question." 

"You need not answer it. I will not embarrass 
you. But see to it, that you trust all to the sove- 
reign mercy of God, offered to you in his Son. I can 
say no more than I have said already. I have told 
you all. My work is finished. I leave you with 
God. See to it, that you make an entire commitment 
.of yourself, for time and eternity, to your Lord and 
Redeemer." 

On the evening of the next day I had a long in- 
terview with her. It was delightful to hear her ex- 
pressions. Among other things she said to me, — 

" I feel that I am now at peace. I trust my God. 
I love to trust Him. The Saviour is everything to 



l7C I CAN'T PRAY. 

me. I know He will fulfil all His promises. Oh, 
my dear friend, I have had a dreadful struggle ! but 
I have had strength given me to persevere. Now 
the love of Grod is very precious to my soul. I 
never expected this happiness." 

" Do you love to pray ?" 

" Oh yes ; prayer is sweet to me now. I can tell all 
my wants to my heavenly Father." 

After some farther conversation, I said to her, — 

" You seem to have come into a different state of 
mind within a few days. You do not talk as you 
did. How have you brought yourself to this ? to 
feel so differently ?" 

" Oh, sir! it is nothing that I have done ! I just 
prayed to God with all my heart and in full faith, and 
he did every thing for me" 

She appeared to be a Yerj happy Christian. Her 
joy was full. Her life was prayer. 

The elder sister, who so much resembled the 
younger in her difficulty about prayer, I visited 
generally at the same times and as often as the 
younger. I had almost precisely the same things 
to say to her ; and a few days afterwards she also 
entertained " just a little hope," as she expressed it. 

These sisters were deeply interested for each other. 
Each would say to me frequently, " I want you to 
see my sister." Their anxiety for one another was 
beneficial to them, and their thoughts of their ab* 



I CAN'T PRAY. 177 

sent mother, vhom they often mentioned, appeared 
to me to constrain them to more earnest endeavors 
to lay hold on eternal life. They both have hope 
in Christ, and I trust will both have heaven. I first 
saw them in the month of May, and on the seventh 
day of the following September, having returned to 
their distant home, their native place, they both 
came for the first time to the table of the Lord, hap- 
py Christians in the dew of their youth. 

I have given this sketch, in this extended form, 
as illustrating the propriety of continued solicitation 
at the door of a sinner's heart. Here were two 
young ladies without any special seriousness, world- 
ly, presenting no hopeful appearance, but presenting 
a cold discouragement, calculated to damp every 
hope, and stop every effort to do them good, and 
coming out so sadly in the words, " I never prayed 
in my life." 

But one conversation was followed up by another ; 
they were scarcely left a day to themselves, and the 
influences of the world, their strange hindrance of 
speculative error was assailed in every form, and 
overthrown again and again by declarations of 
Scripture and arguments of reason ; — and their 
whole history shows, that vigorous and persevering 
attempts to convert sinners, have as much prospect 
of success, as any well-directed attempts in any 



178 i can't pray. 

ordinary matter. Not that man can reach sinners' 
hearts, but that God may be expected to reach 
them, when minister or any other man shall dili- 
gently knock at their door, with the voice of God's 
urgent and affectionate truth. 

The reluctance of these young women to pray may 
have been fostered, (I suppose it was,) by the fogs 
of a metaphysical theology, in which they had been 
educated, and which they probably misunderstood. 
But it originated in a consciousness of a home-bred 
depravity. " I can't ash God to make me his child," 
said one of them ; "I hnow my heart does not want 
it." But there was a propriety in urging them to 
prayer, because God commands men to pray, and 
because I expected they would be rendered more 
sensible of their opposition to God, and their need 
of his aid, when they should attempt its perform- 
ance. And so it turned out. Their conviction, 
which had been superficial and speculative only, 
became more deep, more practical. "While super- 
ficial and speculative* their depravity was an excuse 
to them. When rendered deep and thorough by a 
sincere attempt to pray, it became experimental, it 
was no longer an excuse, but only made them cry 
for mercy with all their might : "I prayed to God 
in full faith, and with all my heart, and He did 
everything for me." A just conviction of sin makes 
no excuse ; but it will pray. 



I CAN'T PR i i. 1*79 

I mi glit have avoided tins girl's excuse by urging 
her to repentance and faith : I chose to meet it by 
urging her to prayer. It was her inability to pray 
in any manner to meet her own approval, which 
had contributed more than anything else to con- 
vince her of her deep-seated depravity, and aliena- 
tion from God ; and I did not wish to diminish this 
conviction, by leading her thoughts from the thing 
that caused it. It would have been dangerous to 
turn her thoughts into a new channel. I aimed to 
conspire with the Holy Spirit. It was important 
that she should realize the necessity of the direct 
help of the Divine Spirit personally, practically, and 
therefore more deeply, than by her speculation she 
ever could ; and she was more likely to have such £, 
realization through endeavors to pray rightly, than 
by any other means. In her speculation she thought 
she knew full well her wickedness and helplessness ; 
but these were the very things she did not know. 
She found them out just when she endeavored to 
pray. Then, a full sense of her undone and help- 
less condition burst upon her. She could do no- 
thing but cry : "I just prayed to God with all my 
heart, and in full faith." And then, as she ex- 
pressed it, " He did everything for me." " Go thou, 
and do likewise." 



Can't $ttL 



Fkom early spring down to the autumn of the 
year, a very sedate and contemplative man had 
been accustomed to call upon me, in respect to his 
religious thoughts and anxieties. At first he 
seemed to have thoughts only, but they ripened by 
degrees into anxieties. He began by asking about 
theories, or doctrines, apparently without any idea 
of making an application of the truth to himself. 
He had points of difficulty which he wished to have 
explained, and then he found other points; and 
these gradually changed in character from abstract 
questions to those of the application of the truth. 
From the first, I tried to lead him on to the per- 
sonal application ; but months passed away before 
he appeared to have much sense of his sin, or much 
anxiety about himself. 

But he came to this ; and after quite a struggle of 
mind, as it appeared to me to lead himself to believe 
in salvation by personal merit, he gave that up ; he 
paid to me, "I have become convinced that sinners 
are saved, not by their own goodness, but because 



181 

they are pardoned on account of Jesus Christ. Faith 
in Him is the only way for them." 

After this, I had conversed with him several times, 
when he appeared to me to be not far from the king- 
dom of God ; but I was as often disappointed, for he 
would come back to me again in as much trouble 
and unbelief as before. Again and again I had an- 
swered all his inquiries, teaching him out of the 
Scriptures ; had brought up to his mind all the doc- 
trines of truth, the divine promises and directions, 
sin and salvation ; but all in vain. He had become 
very solemn, and seemed to be entirely candid and 
really in earnest. His Bible had become his con- 
stant study ; he was a man of prayer ; he attended 
upon all our religious services with manifest interest ; 
he appeared to have a deep sense of his sin and dan- 
ger. But he had no hope in Christ. 

I finally said to him one evening, — 

" I do not know, my dear sir, what more can be 
said to you. I have told you all that I know. Your 
state as a sinner lost, exposed to the righteous pen- 
alty of God's Law, and having a heart alienated 
from God ; and the free offer of redemption by 
Christ ; and your instant duty to repent of sin and 
give up the world and give God your heart ; and 
the source of your help through the power of the 
Holy Spirit assured to you, if you will ' receive 7 
Christ : all these things have become as familiar to 



182 I CAN'T FEEL. 

you as household words. What more can I say ? 
I know not what more there is to be said. I cannot 
read your heart. God can, and you can by His aid. 
Some things you have said almost made me think 
you a Christian, and others again have destroyed that 
hope. I now put it to your own heart — if you are 
not a Christian, what hinders you ?" 

He thought a moment, — said he, — 

" I can't feelP 

" Why didn't you tell me this befo^ ?" 

" I never thought of it before, sir.'' 

"How do you know this hinders you?" 

"I can think of nothing else. But I am sure I 
shall never be converted to God, if I have no more 
feeling than I have now. But that is my own fault. 
I know you cannot help me." 

"No sir, I cannot ; nor can you help yourself. 
Your heart will not feel at your bidding." 

"What then can I do?" said he, with much 
anxiety. 

"Come to Christ, now. Trust Him. Give up 
your darling world. l Eepent : so iniquity shall not 
be your ruin.' " 

He seemed perplexed — annoyed — vexed ; and 
with an accent of impatience, such as I had never 
witnessed in him before, he replied, — 

" That is impossible. I want the feeling, to bring 
me to that ; and I can't feel !" 



I CAN T FEEL. 183 

" Hear me, sir," said I, and heed well what I say. 
I have several points : 

11 1. The Bible never tells you that you must feel, 
but that you must repent and believe. 

" 2. Your complaint that you l can't feel,' is just an 
excuse, by which your wicked heart would j ustify you 
for not coming to Christ now. 

"3. This complaint that you 'can't feel' is the 
complaint of a self-righteous spirit" (He started — 
rose upon his feet, and stood as in amazement.) 

"How is it?" said he. 

" Because you look to the desired feeling to com- 
mend you to Grod, or to make you fit to come, or to 
enable you to come." 

" Yes, to enable me," said he. 

" Well, that is self righteousness, in the shape of self- 
justification for not coming, or the shape of self-re- 
liance, if you attempt to come. That is all legalism, 
and not the acceptance of a gracious Christianity. 
You cannot be saved by Law. 

" 4. Your complaint is the language of the most 
profound ignorance. To feel would do you no good. 
Devils feel. Lost spirits feel. 

" 5. Your complaint that you ' can't feel,' tends to 
lead you to a false religion — a religion of mere self- 
righteous feeling. Eeligion is duty." 

" But, sir," said he, " there is feeling in religion." 

41 But, sir," said I, " there is duty in religion ; and 



184 i can't feel. 

which, shall come first ? You ought to feel : you 
ought to love God ; and grieve that you are such a 
senseless sinner." 

" I know I am a sinner ; but I can't feel any con- 
fidence to turn to God, to draw me to Him." 

"You are like the prodigal in the fifteenth of Luke, 
when he thought of saying to his father, { make me 
as one of thy hired servants.' Poor fool ! Say that, 
to his father ? Why, the very idea is a libel on 
his father's heart ! But he did'nt think so. Poor 
fool ! he knew no better. And you are a greater 
fool than he. He went home. And where he met 
his father, he found his heart. He could "feel" 
when he found his father's arms around him, and 
felt the strong beatings of his father's heart. Do as 
he did. Go home and jou will feel, if you never 
felt before. You will starve where you are ; your 
* husks ' will not save you." 

As I was uttering this he hung his head, cast his 
eyes upon the floor, and stood like a statue of stone. 
I let him think. There he stood for some long 
minutes. Then turning suddenly to me, reaching 
to me his hand, says he, — 

" I am very much obliged to you ; good night." 

I let him go. 

About a month afterwards I met him riding alone 
in his wagon, and he insisted upon my taking a seat 
with him, for he had " something to say" to me, and 



I CAN'T FEEL 185 

he would " drive wherever I wanted to go/' I was 
no sooner seated in the wagon than he said to me, — 

11 The human heart is the greatest mystery in the 
wond ; inexplicable, contradictory to itself ; it is 
absurd. Man is a riddle. Who would imagine that 
when a sinner really wishes to feel his sins more, 
and wishes to have the love of Christ in his heart, 
it is because he is not willing to give up the world. 
He says, (as I said to you that last night,) " I canH 
feel," as an excuse for holding on to it. I found as 
soon as I was willing to "go home," as you called 
it, the road was plain enough." 

" Were you hindered long with that want of feel- 



ing?" 



11 No ; I never thought of it till that night. It 
came upon me like a flash ; and then, just as I was 
thinking it was a good reason in my favor, you 
dashed it all into shivers." 

" And can you 'feel ' now?" 

11 Oh, yes ; I have no trouble about that. I find, 
if a poor creature will turn to God, in the name of 
Jesus, he will learn to feel as he never felt before. 

Sinners, not willing to give up the world, and 
wanting an excuse for their irreligion, exclaim, "I 
canH feci?' 



8RUlht£ tff be JasL 

I received a letter from an individual in a neigh- 
boring State, an entire stranger to me. Omitting 
some names and dates, I here give some liberal ex- 
tracts from it. It appears to me, that the religious 
experience which the letter describes, is one of the 
best possible refutations of the strange theological 
opinion to which it refers ; and, perhaps, desponding 
affections in other people may receive some solace 
by knowing something of the experience of my 

correspondent, as recorded in the Letter. 

* w * # # * 

"Sir, 

" I am troubled and perplexed, in reference to 
my spiritual state. Will you allow me to throw off 
all restraint, forgetting for the time that I am a 
stranger ? With a grateful heart I tell you my dear 
parents were very godly persons, and we, their 
children, were educated most religiously. My blessed 
father, now gone to heaven, was a great admirer of 
Dr. Hopkins and Dr. Emmons. The great doctrines 
they inculcated were among the first lessons I learn- 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 187 

ed on religious subjects ; but truly, sir, I could not 
comprehend tliem, and the views they gave me of 
God, were truly undesirable. As I knew nothing 
about the filial love which glowed in the breast of 
my father, the ideas I entertained of my Creator 
filled me with dread, and I grew up afraid of this 
holy sovereign. After my marriage, I attended 
upon the ministry of one who called himself a Hop- 
kinsian ; but surely Dr. Hopkins w^ould never have 
acknowledged him as a disciple. He used to tell 
me I must be willing to ' be led into sin, if the glory 
of God required it;' that I must 'go dow r n to the 
potters house/ and there become willing to see God 
form me into a 'vessel of wrath,' if he saw r it most 
for His glory to do so. Well, as such doctrines were 
furnished me as l the sincere milk of the Word, 7 I 
need not tell you I could not ' grow^ thereby.' 

"In the year 18 — , I indulged a faint hope that 
my heart w r as renewed ; but so weak was my faith, 
that my days w r ere divided between hope and fear. 
I really loved the society of devout, heavenly- 
minded Christians. I saw myself a vile sinner, 
despaired of making myself any better, and was 
brought to see that all I could do was to give my 
whole self to Jesus in all my sinfulness. This I did 
over and over again ; but to you I confess, I never, 
never felt willing to go to perdition, though I saw 
God would be just in sending me there. But, oh 



188 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

sir, I shrunk from justice, and cried or mercy, 
mercy. Well, from that time to the present, (more 
than twenty years,) I have known nothing like the 
1 assurance of hope.' Though I am as certain that 
I love the prosperity of the Redeemer's kingdom, as 
I am of my own existence ; yet fear so predomi- 
nates in my heart, that I am at times ready to give 
up all hope of my adoption. Let me give you a 
single instance out of a thousand. If seated in the 
house of God, listening with delight and rapt atten- 
tion to the preached w r ord, joining w r ith all my 
heart in the prayers and praises of that sacred place, 
and feeling in my very soul that to go — 

' Where congregations ne'er break up 
And Sabbaths never end/ 

is the heaven I desire ; if my ear catches the sound 
of distant thunder, all is over with me, — my mind is 
filled with painful forebodings, and lines like the 
following: are darted through, it : — 



o 



' Quite weary is my patience grown, 
And bids my fury go, 
Swift as the lightning it shall pass, 
And be as fatal too.' 

Trembling, sick, unable to sit up; — vomiting gene- 
rally follows. Now the dreadful question comes, is 
not 'my house founded on the sand?' It is not 
dying that I fear so much, but the thought of dying 



WILLING TO 3E LOST. 189 

unprepared, I feel no lieart-rising against God, His 
love, or His government, but heart-sinking fear. 

"Now do we not read, 'great peace have they 
who love thy Law, — perfect love casteth out fear, — 
the Lord will keep him in jaerfect peace whose 
mind is stayed on Him?' Here now is my trouble. 
Afraid of a holy, righteous God ; sensible I deserve 
His anger, I sink beneath the fear of it. The other 
day I was meditating on my strange state of mind, 
and I thought I would go again, as the Hymn 
says : — 

I'll go to Jesus, though my sins 

Have like a mountain rose ; 
I know his courts, I'll euter in, 

Whatever may oppose.' 

When I came to the verse, — 

' Perhaps, he will admit my plea, 
Perhaps, will hear my prayer ;' 

the word, perhaps^ troubled me. I consulted a book, 
in which the author has explained that perhaps. 
He says, l there is no perhaps in the matter. God 
says there is none. " Hear, and your soul shall live." 
He says, ' the Hymn is right ; because it represents 
what a sinner feels when he is resolving to go to 
Christ. But let him fling his "perhaps" to the winds ; 
the sceptre of Immanuel shall be shivered into 
pieces, the throne of the Kedeemer Jehovah shall 



190 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

sink, sooner than such a sinner perish.' This was 
enough for my poor heart. All I could do w r as to 
weep, and read, and weep again. It seemed to me 
that if I had ten thousand souls to save, and each as 
sinful as I felt mine to be, I would lay them all into 
the arms of Jesus, and not doubt about their accept- 
ance. I thought I could never feel depressed again 
with fear. Those blessed words were so precious, 
my heart rested on the ability and willingness of 
Jesus to save me. 

" But alas ! sir, we have been visited with a tem- 
pest since that time, and again my poor house has 
fallen ! Oh ! tell me, if I cannot bear a little storm, 
how am I to view the terrors of the last great day ? 
In all the simplicity of a child I ask you, dear sir, 
what I shall do ? I cannot go to the world of des- 
pair. But if, after all, I must receive the merited 
reward of my sins, I will have nothing to do with 
the wicked men in that dreadful place, nor can I 
ever blaspheme the name of Jehovah Jesus." 

* \ * ■& * & 

" The lines have fallen unto me in pleasant 
places ; I have a goodly heritage. God has given 
me a good, kind, faithful shepherd, whose ministra- 
tions I have enjoyed seven years. He is an excel- 
lent man. We all love him much. But for some 
reason he will not let me tell him of my fears, or, at 
least, he is pleased to treat them so lightly, that I 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 191 

do not often say nrncli to him on the subject. He 
is a man of great energy, was never afraid of any- 
thing, and appears ever prepared for death, however 
sudden it may come. But his views on some points 
are very different from Dr. Emmons." 

* * * & * 

♦ £..•• 

Such was the letter. I thought it furnished mel- 
ancholy proof of the unnecessary perplexity and 
torment of spirit, which false theological principles 
will sometimes produce. This person was evidently 
annoyed, plagued, tormented for years, by the in- 
fluence of an extravagant doctrine. The same has 
happened to others. An eminent clergyman, to 
whom I read that letter in my study, said to me, 
u Change the names and the dates, and that case is 
precisely my own." 

The minister, who taught the ioctrine, and in- 
sisted upon it with so much plainness and strength, 
probably went far beyond anything which Hopkins 
or Emmons would have said, though he deemed 
himself one of their disciples in theology. This is 
common to all followers of men : the scholar becomes 
worse than the master. 

It is often difficult indeed to know how to deal 
with, the troubles of mind which result from strange 
doctrines. The doctrine will come up before the 
heart whi^h it has once tormented, and will stand 



192 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

as a wall of adamant, to keep from the heart that 
hope w r hich otherwise the gospel would infuse into 
it. Or, if the strange doctrine is of an opposite 
character, and has led to a false hope, it will be 
very apt to come back again to do its old mischief, 
after the delusive hope has once been dissipated by 
the truth. And in the case of such doctrines and 
despondencies as this letter mentions ; it is not easy 
for us to determine whether we shall reason or ridi- 
cule. A woman, who for a long time had been 
serious, perplexed and distressed, but w^ho never 
had attained any hope in Christ, once went to her 

minister, the Rev. Dr. S , of H , and told 

him, that she now believed she had become a 
Christian. 

" What makes }^ou think so, Madam ?" 
11 Because," said she, "I am now willing to be 
damned. I have tried a long time to come to such 
a state of mind, and never have succeeded; but 
now, I am willing to be damned, if God pleases to 
cast me off." 

" Well, Madam," said the Doctor coolly, " if you are 
willing to be damned, and God is willing you should 
be, I don't know as I ought to have any objections." 
Probably this ridicule was quite as effective to cor- 
rect a strange notion, as any didactic instruction 
could have been. However this may have been, to 
the above letter I returned the following answer : — 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 193 

" My Deae Friend, — 

" It is rather an awkward business to write a let- 
ter, when you do not know whether it is a man or 
a woman to whom you are writing. But I am placed 
just in that position. Your initials do not indicate 
your sex. 

" The only thing, beyond the ordinary range of 
strictly religious matter, which (as I judge from your 
letter), you have any special need that I should 
write to you, is a few words to call your attention 
to the influences of physical condition upon religious 
sensibilities. ' Thunder ' will sometimes kill goslings, 
turn milk sour, and spoil the tanner's calf-skins, when 
they are at a particular point in the process of being 
manufactured into leather. And it is not a miracle, 
if { thunder ' sometimes makes you sick. Though it 
may be a very humiliating idea to us, that we are 
sometimes under the influence of external physical 
causes in the sacred sensibilities of our religion, yet 
it is true. The east wind has shaken many a relig- 
ions hope. We have not yet ' spiritual bodies' supe- 
rior to the power of matter's contact, and we are 
greatly liable to have our comforts and griefs of 
mind swayed by the elements, especially when a 
timid or peculiarly sensitive soul is connected with 
a body not made of iron. The outward things 
of nature, such as ' storms,' and 'thunder,' and 
'waters,' which you mention (or even our imagina- 

9 



194 WILLING TO BE LOST 

tion at work upon them), may have upon us a more 
powerful effect than our intellectual or spiritual 
pride is willing to confess. Women more than men 
are liable to this, (and from your hand- writing, I 
suppose you to be a woman.) 

" So far as your religious impressions have been 
moulded by Hopkins or Emmons, you may be un- 
fortunate ; but I see nothing in your case which is 
very uncommon, or which need greatly perplex you. 
# * * % * 

" It seems you have resort to Hopkins and Emmons, 
and to another book which you mention. All this 
may be very well, but you are quite too much affect- 
ed by a speculative spirit. Be a child : not a philoso- 
pher, but a child : not a servant, but a child : not an 
angel, but a child, — just a humble child. 

"Let me lift the curtain a little^ and give you a 
glimpse of what lies within ; when I say that specu- 
lation never humbles spiritual pride. You are start 
led. I do not wonder at it, though the words are 
not t thunder.' But jou may be assured there is in 
the suggestion more truth than poetry or politeness. 

" I hope you are a Christian ; but a little more sim- 
plicity would not hurt you, and a little less pride 
would do you good." 



Not many days had elapsed before I received 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 195 

from my unknown correspondent the following let- 
ter: — 

* # * * * 

" You have taught me a lesson I shall not soon 
forget. Oh ! sir, you have ' lifted the curtain.' I 
did ' not know what manner of spirit I was of.' You 
have read me rightly, — ' a little more simplicity 
would not harm you, a little less pride would do 
you good.' Here is truth condensed. I really think 
I feel the force of it as keenly as you meant I should. 
The night I received your most welcome letter I had 
little to do with sleep, and the only prayer I could 
utter was, ' God be merciful to me a sinner.' Sir, I 
thank you, sincerely thank you for turning my eyes 
in the right direction. Why did I not know my 
heart better? 'Who can understand his errors'? 
Cleanse thou me from secret faults.' 

1 Show me my sins, and how to mourn 
My guilt before tby face.' 

" In regard to my leaving you in the dark in 
respect to myself, I am much mortified, and can 
only say it was inexcusable carelessness. As I sat 
down to write, I felt as though I was talking to one 
whom I knew personally. * * * I beg you to 
forgive me, and be assured I shall be more careful 
in future. I feel so much obliged to you for writ- 
ing, and especially for your faithfulness, that I am 



196 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

uot sorry for obtruding my unworthy self upon 
your notice, however much mortification it has 
occasioned me. * * * Oh, sir, you have done 
me goody * * * 

To this I returned the following answer : — 

" My Dear Madam, — 

" I have just received your last letter, and seize 
a moment to respond to it. I am greatly rejoiced, 
if my letter afforded you profit or satisfaction ; but 
I am quite sorry it kept you awake. That condi- 
tion of nervous excitability'', which forbids your 
sleeping, or forbids your loving ; thunder,' is not 
to be fostered or indulged. It will do your religion 
(if you have any,) no good ; and it certainly will 
not lead you to it, if you are still an unbeliever. 
Perhaps you have not sufficiently considered, that 
nerves are poor counsellors. You would do well 
not to ask their advice. You had better ask Paul, 
or David, or Jeremiah even, if you must have the 
liberty to utter c Lamentations.' And more : I 
am not willing to speak evil of anybody, but I can 
assure you, that these same creatures, called nerves, 
are the greatest liars in the country. Do not be- 
lieve them, when they tell you that you are a Chris- 
tian, or when they tell you that you are a repro- 
bate. They w r ill tell lies on both sides, and they 
don't care which. I did hope that you would be 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 197 

able to perceive their mischief, by what I said to 
you about the goslings and sour milk, and calf- 
skins. But you have not mentioned it in your 
letter. What I mean is simply this: that 'thun- 
der' has an inexplicable effect upon some such 
things, with which religion has nothing to do ; and 
if it has an inexplicable effect upon you, you need 
not link that effect with your religion : your sick- 
ness is caused by the 'thunder,' not by your de- 
pravity. ' Thunder,' wdnds, storms, 'waters,' may 
assail your timid nerves, and set them again at their 
old work of lies ; but your religion has nothing at 
all to do with the matter. If old Elijah w^ere alive, 
he could tell you something about this. 

"You speak of seeing me, but jou 'fear the 
water.' I should be happy to see you, madam ; but 
I am in duty bound to tell you that you would be 
greatly disappointed. You might be benefited, in- 
deed, bjit the way of the benefit w^ould be very dif- 
ferent from your anticipation. I know a man, who 
once travelled more than a thousand miles for the 
purpose of seeing a minister, whom '*e believed to 
be able to give him some light on the subject of 
personal religion, and all the good he received from 
him was just nothing at all ; and yet this was the 
best possible good, for the experiment convinced him 
fully that his help was not in man. 

' Let me lift the curtain a little farther. Faith, 



198 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

you know, is the way of salvation, — is an essential 
in every part of religion. Sometimes we are drawn 
to faith, and sometimes our miserable hearts must 
be driven to it. Now, though I believe you are an 
amiable woman, (and none too amiable after all, at 
times,) yet somehow or other you are not easy to be 
drawn, — you must be driven. And your tempta- 
tions, and fears, and plans, and efforts, every one of 
them, just tend to draw you away from the exercise 
of a naked, simple faith in God, — even many a one 
of your prayers has had the same effect, because you 
trusted the praying to do you good, instead of trust- 
ing God's answer to do you good. And for the 
proof of this, I call upon your own recollections, 
extending over years of fear and hope. 

M One thing more. There is an order in the snares 
and temptations of the devil. He has three classes 
of temptations. You have got beyond the first, and 
perhaps the second ; but you are not safe from the 
third. Yea, you are very much exposed to it, and 
the more so, probably, because you do not know or 
even suspect what it is. 

" First. Satan employs the world, — -just aims to 
keep sinners satisfied to love earthly things, and 
pursue them. If he cannot do that, — if they cannot 
be made to live on without any kind of religion, 
— hunting for riches, honor, pleasure, ease, or some 
such thing, then, — 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 199 

" Second, Satan aims to lead them into a false 
religion, into deception, into some delusion, which 
shall lull them into a false peace to their ruin. 
(You have been quite sufficiently aware of this, — 
indeed you have feared it too much.) But if he can- 
not do this, — if they have too much knowledge of 
the Bible, and too much of the influences of the 
Holy Spirit to be led into a false hope, then the 
old liar shifts his ground ; and, — 

" Third, aims to drive them to despair. This is his 
last effort, and, I do believe, the most devilish one 
of all. It is most like him, for it is at once the most 
false and most miserable. 

" But I must stop. ' Satan hath desired to have 
you, that he may sift you as wheat ;' but I trust the 
Master hath ' prayed for you, that your faith fail not.' 

" I want you to think of these three classes of 
temptations, and to oppose/az^/i to each one of them. 
Just fling your faith into the face of the devil, kow r - 
ever he may come to you. Especially, my dear 
friend, think of this third and last device of the 
adversary, which you have commonly too much 
overlooked, and let faith triumph over despair." 



The following is her reply : — 

11 How shall I sufficiently thank you, clear sir, for 
your last kind letter ? I cannot make you know r 



200 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

how deeply your condescension is felt and appre- 
ciated. You will allow me now to tell you all my 
heart — I mean the little part of it that I know. 

" You say ' nerves are poor counsellors,' and 
that • they are the greatest liars in the country.' 
Now it has been my way to set down all the mis- 
chief you ascribe to nerves, to a wicked heart Here 
I have found much trouble; but you have in a 
measure convinced me that I have got to learn how 
to use the shield of faith. Oh, sir, my eyes are 
open. Now I see that l simple, naked faith in God ' 
is what I need ; and, if I am not w r holly deceived, 
my resolution is taken. I will give Satan the lie, 
and believe God. He has said, 'come unto me,' 
and ' w r hosoever cometh I will in nowise cast out.' 
Now I will not be driven from a firm, practical be- 
lief of this blessed, faithful promise. This doubting, 
half dead, half alive way of living, is to be aban- 
doned at once and forever. Not in my own strength 
may I attempt this ; but lifting a tearful, trusting 
eye to Jesus, I will strive to maintain a ' cheerful 
courage,' and God helping me, I need never yield 
to one of either ' class of temptations,' employed by 
the great adversary. But if my sinful heart will 
sink in fear and dismay, amidst all the great and 
precious promises made by Him who is unchanging 
truth, then I will just bring this wicked heart the 
sooner to Jesus, that he may renew and sanctify it. 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 201 

"How well I know what you mean when you tell 
me that ' all my plans and efforts, every one of 
them, just tend to drive me away from the exercise 
of a naked, simple faith in God — even many a one 
of your prayers has had the same effect.' Oh, I 
plead guilt}'. 

# ->r * * * 

u I do not know r how it is, but you seem to know 

me at this distance better than I know myself. * * 

When I read in your last letter, ' and none too 

amiable after all, at times,' I laughed and cried both. 
-x- # * * * 

" The last time I wrote you my heart w r as too full 
to say what I wanted to. Indeed I did not quite 
know what you meant, by saying what you did in 
regard to the effect of l thunder ' on ' goslings, milk, 
and the tanner's work.' The fact is, I was so taken 
up, or rather ' cast down' by the closing part of your 
letter, that I did not think much about this. Yes, 
dear sir, I was truly { cast down but not destroyed.' 
You did not intend I should be : but now I will just 
tell you the wdiole truth of the matter. I felt dis- 
tressed, and the question I wanted you to answer 
was this : can there be any filial love in the heart 
that is so full of slavish fear? Well, I did cherish a 
secret hope that you w r ould, in your kindness, send 
me a little soothing salve, but behold a probe I Oh, 
you pierced the festering wound, and I bless the 



202 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

Lord for all you said. Your words, as you say, 
w r ere not i thunder no, no ; tliey were something 
very different from mere sound. You have been so 
faithful to me, I want words to tell you how much I 

thank you for it all." 

* - * * * # 

* * * 

This letter was answered, and I afterwards receiv- 
ed the following reply : — 

* * * " But now let me tell you how much 
good you have done my poor soul. For long years, 
my time w r as spent betwixt hope and fear, fear 
greatly predominating. When I united with the 
church, instead of feeling ' joyful,' I was just able 
to stand on this precious promise, ' my grace is suf- 
ficient for thee.' Often I was led to see my sinful- 
ness in such a light as to hide the Saviour from my 
view. Sometimes I was afraid to pray, lest I should 
be struck dead in the act. Sometimes I could look 
only at the power and the justice of God, and could 
see in Him only the stern law-giver ; and, feeling a 
deep sense of my guilt, I have trembled where I ought 
to have loved. But since I read ♦ * * # and 
your letters, especially the second, I have been made 
to see that l faith is,' indeed, ' everything.' Now I 
can look to Jesus ; and I feel so happy in realizing 
that he is all I need. I am so sinful, but He is so 



WILLING TO BE L ) S T . 203 

holy, He is wortJiy, He has made all the sacrifice the 
broken, righteous law demanded ; and now, as I am 
a sinner lost, I am the one for whom He died, the 
one He came to seek and to save. All I can do is 
just to believe. 

" Hitherto I have read the Bible, especially the 
promises, for somebody else. I could apply the 
greatest of them in a most comfortable manner, to 
Christians about me, but feared to apply one of them 
fully to myself, lest I should be lost at last ! But 
now I find much enjoyment often in studying the 
character of God the Father, in the face of Jesus 
Christ. Did Pie not say, ' he that hath seen me 
hath seen the Father ' ? Now I do so love to look 
at God in Christ my Redeemer. Oh, why did I so 
long refuse to trust alone in Jesus ? I have indeed 
been a l fool, and slow of heart to believe.' Nor do 
I jet know much about it, though I do feel encour- 
aged to persevere in withstanding every temptation 
to ' despair.' For now I say to Satan, if I am a 
sinner, utterly lost, and have no hope of making my 
heart any better, then I must go to an Almighty 
Saviour, even to Him \ who is able to save to the 
uttermost. 1 Think of this word uttermost. I will 
believe God. I will love the Saviour, whom I 
would embrace in the arms of faith. He is all my 
hope. For a little while at a time, I can let go every 
cord of self-dependence, and just fall into the arms, 



204 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

the strong arms of Jesus, and there would I ever lie. 

Sometimes I do so want to go to heaven, that I may 

once feel just as sorry for sin as I want to feel, and love 

the Saviour as much as I ought. And will a whole 

eternity be long enough to praise Him ? to tell the 

saints and angels how much I owe to Him, who 

washed me in His own blood ? Sometimes I love 

to look forward to the time w r hen all the redeemed 

will be gathered home, and hope to meet you there, 

and will tell you, as we sit on some 'green and 

flowery mount,' all the Saviour hath done for my 

sinful soul. 

* * * * * 

11 1 will not close this letter without telling you, 
the last thunder shower we had I did not feel half 
so much afraid as usual. I kept thinking all the 
time, I w r ill give my body and my soul to Jesus. I 
will l put that cloud, 1 all of it { into his hand. 1 He 
can hold the lightning, and he can and will * direct 
it, under the whole heaven. 7 But now you have 
put another comfort into my heart : you say, c learn 
to hear in the thunder the voice of your own Fath- 
er — a voice not threatening to you, but to your foes:' 



I answered this letter also, and in a few days I 
was gratified with the reception of the following 
sentences in her answer : — 



WILLING TO BE LOST. 205 

* * * " I applied to you for aid in reference 
to reconciliation to God. And now, the way of sal- 
vation by faith in Jesus Christ, looks so much 
plainer than it ever did before, I feel sometimes as 
if I could not ever let go the thought, that Christ 
alone is the way. ' I am the way.' Oh, my Saviour, 
take me. 

" You do not know how sinful a heart I have 
yet. I do not know. But Jesus knows just how 
much I need his pardoning love, — how much grace 
I need to keep me from falling into sin and de- 
struction. I look back, and try to think what I 
have been doing to please Satan and grieve my 
Eedeemer, while in the dark and cold speculations 
arising from the perusal of such sermons as Dr. 
Emmons' L Pharaoh' sermon, c for in very deed for 
this cause have I raised thee rip.' 

" But I turn away now, and just try to i be a child, 1 
not a servant, but a child : not a philosopher, but a 
child, — just a humble child." 

-* * #• 

Extravagant theological opinions are apt to be 
adopted by those very persons to whom they are 
most ^inappropriate and most misguiding. This 
woman was an example. She was the last woman 
in the world to have any need of the stern theology 



206 WILLING TO BE LOST. 

of Dr. Hopkins and Dr. Emmons, (whom she per- 
haps misunderstood.) By natural disposition she 
was greatly inclined to fear ; and being of delicate 
sensibilities, nervous, imaginative, poetical, and pe- 
culiarly affectionate, the severities of her adopted 
theology were the last things to profit her. They 
made her miserable only. They did not reach her 
heart. The l kindness and love' of the gospel 
were the very things for her. Her heart, her affec- 
tionate heart, was (if I may say so), precisely 
adapted to them. This was her experience after- 
wards. She yielded to love what she never yielded 
to terror, — she was drawn where she could not be 
driven, — -faith accomplished for her w r hat fear could 
not accomplish,- — she found simplicity better than 
speculation ; and she then exchanged perplexity and 
despondency, for the calmness of trust and the sun- 
shine of hope. The Laic w r as before her mind 
when she tried to be " willing to be lost." No 
wonder that she despaired. She received relief, 
not by directing her eye downwards into that abyss 
of midnight, her own dark heart; but by being 
brought to look away to Christ and his glorious 
grace. Christ is light. Faith is the eye that sees 
Him. Christ would have sinners willing to be 
saved. False theology, despondency, and the Devil, 
would have them willing to be damned. 



CJe |Hrft of f anttris*. 

Among my parishioners, there was a poor woman 
who had once seen better days. She had moved in 
the most respectable society, the wife of a man of 
wealth, who formerly held an important official sta- 
tion in the state, but who was now reduced to pov- 
erty ; and, trembling with the weight of three score 
years and ten, had greatly lost the powers of his 
mind. She was many years younger than her 
husband. Neither of them was a follower of Christ. 
Indeed, after their early years, they had never paid 
anything more than a formal and fashionable atten- 
tion to even the outward duties of religion. For 
years after their marriage, they lived in splendor ; 
and when his extravagance had squandered his for- 
tune, they were under the necessity of occupying 
the crazy old house where I first became acquainted 
with them. Through the benevolence of some 
wealthy relations, who were very kind to them, 
their temporal necessities were so provided for, that 
they did not suffer. 

Earnestlv I strove to interest their minds in the 



208 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

subject of religion. The old man appeared to me 
to be as stupid as any sinner can be ; and lie re- 
mained so, I believe, to the day of his death, — a 
victim, as I thought, of the foolish love of mere 
earthly ostentation and pleasure. Not so, his far 
younger wife. She listened to me with attention, 
and apparent interest, as I spread the subject of 
religion before her mind, on my first visit to her 
house ; and when I called upon her again, a month 
afterwards, I found she had commenced reading her 
Bible with evident anxiety and prayer. The ques- 
tions she asked me, and her tearful attention to my 
answers, clearly indicated the interest she felt in 
this great subject, which, she said, was " almost 
new" to her thoughts ; for, she had " scarcely given 
a thought to it in twenty years." Said she, " Plea- 
sure occupied my mind at first, and after my hus- 
band's failure, it was all I could think of, to contrive 
how we should live." 

She bore her reverses with commendable forti- 
tude, — labored hard to support herself and her 
husband, kept her little old cottage a pattern of 
neatness, and on the whole she won the respect of 
the few neighbors that knew her. There was 
nothing about her, as a woman or as an inquiring 
sinner, which appeared to me uncommon or pecu- 
liar. There was, indeed, as I thought, some little 
manifestation of a nervous excitability, when she 



THE BIRD CF PARADISE. 209 

mentioned to me her wicked heart, her straggles in 
prayer, and her despondency about "ever gaining 
the forgiveness of God ;" but this I never should 
have thought of again, had it not been for what oc- 
curred afterwards. 

About a week after I had seen and conversed 
with her at her house, not for the first or second 
time, and when I began to hope that she was ' not 
far from the kingdom of God,' she called upon me. 
She came to tell me of her hope in Christ, and how 
happy she was now, in the belief that God had for- 
given and accepted her. She trusted, as she said, 
that God had " heard her prayers, and had sent her 
an answer of peace." 

By way of examining her state of mind, in order 
to know what to say to her, I asked her a few ques- 
tions, which she answered in a manner quite satis- 
factory to me. I found in her nothing to make me 
distrust her, — indeed nothing but the contrary, till 
I asked her,— 

"How long have you had this hope and 'this 
delightful happiness,' which you mention ?" 

11 Since last Thursday night," was her reply. (It 
was now Tuesday.) 

" What then led you to believe that God had l heard 
your prayer, and sent you an answer of peace ?' " 

11 It was what I saw," said she, with some little 
hesitation, as if reluctant to answer. 



210 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

" What did you see ?" 

"It was," said she, hesitating, — "it was a great 
light," and she spake it solemnly, and with evident 
sincerity, but some excitement. 

" Indeed !" said I " And where did you see it?" 

" In my room." 

" What was it? — what caused it ?" 

" I don't know what it was, but it was wonderful! 
I shall never forget it." 

" Did it frighten you?" 

" Oh no, not at all." 

" Was it moonshine ?" 

" No, not at all like it." 

" Did it shine in at the window ? or through a 
crack ?" 

" Neither.; it was just in the room." 

"What did it look like?" 

" It was very wonderful, the sweetest light I ever 
saw. It was brighter than any sunshine ; but it was 
so mild and soft that it did not dazzle the eyes. It 
was perfectly beautiful — most enchanting." 

" Well now, Mrs. L , just tell me all about it; 

I want to know how that was, the time, and all 
about it." 

Seeming to arrange her thoughts, she replied, — 

" I had been sitting up a long time after Mr. 

L went to bed, reading my Bible and trying to 

pray, and I almost despaired of mercy, because my 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 211 

heart was so wicked and obstinate. I felt as if I 
could not go to bed that night, without some proof 
that God would have mercy upon me. I was terri- 
fied with the thought of his wrath, but I felt that I 
deserved it all. Finally I went to bed. I had been 
lying in bed about half an hour thinking of my con- 
dition, and all at once, the most beautiful light I 
ever saw sinned all over the room. It was a 
strange kind of light ; brighter than day, brighter 
than any sunshine ; but a great deal more beautiful 
and sweet. It was mild and so soothing, it filled me 
with perfect peace, a kind of sweet ecstacy, like a 
delightful dream. Then, in an instant, as I was 
thinking how delightful it was, there appeared the 
most beautiful creature that I ever saw. I was per- 
fectly enchanted and carried away with the beauty 
of it, its colors were so sweet and mingled, and its 
form so graceful. It was a bird. He had a rainbow 
in his bill, and a crown of glittering, soft-shining 
gold upon his head ; he was resting on a globe of the 
softest blue, the most enchanting color that ever was. 
I never before conceived of anything so beautiful. 
His color, and his figure, and the crown of shining 
gold upon his head, the rainbow he held in his bill, 
and the blue globe he stood on, and the bright 
sweet light which filled the room, were all of them 
more beautiful and lovely than anything I ever 
thought of before. I was amazed and perfectly hap* 



212 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

py. 'What is itV says I, 'what is it?' 'Why it 
is the bird of Paradise/ says I. 'My precious 
Father has sent it to me from heaven, 1 will not des- 
pair any longer/ Then, I thought how happy I 
am ; God has heard me and had mercy upon me. I 
have been perfectly happy ever since." 

She appeared to be in an ecstacy of delight. 

" What makes you so happy ?" 

" Because, I think God has forgiven me, and be- 
cause now I love Him and trust Him." 

" How do you feel about sin P 

" Oh, I hate it. It displeases God, and separatee 
me from Him." 

" What do you think of Christ ?" 

" He is a precious Saviour. I love Him and trust 
in Him." 

" For what do you trust Him ?" 

"For everything — for pardon, and peace, and 
heaven." 

" Do you think you are holy now ? 

" No ; I know that I sin every hour. But God is 
gracious to me and fills me with jo}^." 

" Do you rejoice because you are so good?'' 

11 No ; I rejoice because God has been so good to 



me." 



" What have you done to gain his favor." 
" /have done nothing only turn to Him." 
"Did you turn to Him of j^ourself?" 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 213 

" No ; I tried, but my heart would not yield, and 
I prayed for the Holy Spirit." 

" How do you expect to be saved ?" 
" By the mercy of God. through my Saviour." 
How do you know He is your Saviour ?" 

II Because I trust in Him, and He has promised 
to save all that come unto Him." 

" Have you any doubt about your forgiveness ?" 

"No, sir, not much, — none that troubles me. I 
know my heart is deceitful ; but I trust only in 
Christ, and then I am safe." 

" Do you think the appearance which you saw 
on Thursday night, was something sent by God?" 

" Yes, I suppose it was." 

" How do you know but the devil sent it ?" 

" I never thought it could come from anything 
but God." 

" For what purpose do you think He sent it ?" 

" To give me peace." 

" What reason have you to think it was sent to 
assure you of God's favor ?" 

- " I don't know what reason I have to think so, 
only I was made so happy." 

" Does the Bible teach you that God gives such 
visions as an evidence of His favor?" 

II I think not." 

" Do you think it was a miracle?" 

" I don't know. I thought God sent it. ?4 



214 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

" What o'clock was it when you saw the light?'' 

11 About one o'clock, I should think." 

" Was the moon up ? 

" No, it had gone down about an hour before." 

" What makes you think it was one o'clock?" 

" Because it was ten when Mr. L went to 

bed. Then I sat up a long time, — I should think 
more than two hours, reading and praying, and 
thinking about my danger of being lost ; and I had 
been in bed some time, — I cannot tell exactly how 
long — half an hour perhaps." 

tf Had you been asleep ?" 

" No; I think not." 

" Were you asleep when you saw it?" 

" Oh no ; I was as much awake as I am now." 

" Did you see the light and the bird with your 
natural eyes, the same as you see me now ?" 

"Yes." 

" Where were they ?" 

" In my room." 

" Did Mr. L see them?" 

" No, he was asleep." 

"If he had been awake, do you think his eyes 
would have seen them ?" 

11 Certainly, I suppose so." 

" Why didn't you wake him ? — is no he fond of 
birds?" 

"I don't know but he is fond of birds," said she f 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 215 

with, a very doubtful look, "but I never thought of 
waking him." 

" Have }'ou got a canary-bird ?" 

44 No, sir," said she, as if doubtful of my meaning 

" Did you ever see a bird of Paradise ?" 

44 No, sir, not alive. I have seen stuffed ones." 

" Which are the prettiest, — the stuffed ones 01 
the one you saw that night ?" 

She cast her eyes down, with a look of mingled 
sadness and confusion, evidently thinking by this 
time that I meant to ridicule her vision ; but she 
replied, mildly and solemnly, — 

" Nothing on earth can be compared with what I 
saw that night." 

44 Did the bird sing any ?" 

44 No, sir." 

44 That is a pity. If he had only sung, then you 
would have had a song of Paradise. What became 
of the bird?" 

44 It went away." 

44 Why didn't you catch it and cage it ? It would 
have brought a good price in Boston. Did it fly 
out of the window ?" 

44 I said it went away; I mean by that, that the 
light and all I saw vanished away, and I saw them 
do more." 

44 How long did they stay before they vanished ?" 

44 Only a few minutes." 



216 THE BIRD JF PARADISE. 

" What did you do when they were gone?" 

" I lay for a long time thinking about it, and feel- 
ing delighted and grateful to God." 

" Grateful for the canary bird and the rainbow ? 
Do you mean that ?" 

" No sir, not that so much ; but grateful for God's 
great love to me, to pardon so unworthy a sinner." 

" Did the bird tell you God had pardoned you ?" 

" No sir." 

44 What made you think he had ?" 

" What I saw, and my own happy feelings." 

44 What makes you happy ?" 

44 Because I love God and trust in Christ." 

44 Would you have loved God, if you had not seen 
the bird?" 

" I don't know ; I hope so." 

44 When did you begin to feel so happy?" 

" Thursday night." 

" Just when you saw the bird, was it ?" 

44 Yes sir." 

44 It is a great pity you did not catch that bird. 
If the sight of him is so effectual, we could carry 
him around here among impenitent sinners ; and, as 
soon as they saw him, one after another, they would 
become happy, excellent Christians, and your bird 
would be worth more to convert sinners than forty 
ministers like me. Do you expect to see that bird 
again ?" 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 217 

" No, I have no such expectation." 

" Now, Mrs. L , do you feel sure all that was 

not a dream ?" 

" It was no dream,'' said she, seriously. "I was 
awake. Don't you think I saw that light, sir ?" said 
she with an imploring look. 

"No, madam; I don't believe you saw any such 
thing. I believe you think you saw it ; but I believe 
it was all in your own imagination, and nowhere 
else." 

• She shook her head very emphatically, as if fixed 
in the opposite opinion. 

" Mrs. L ," said I, u do you ever drink wine, 

or any stimulating drink ?'.' 

" No sir ; not at all." 

" Do you ever take opium or laudanum ?" 

" Not unless the doctor orders it when I am sick." 

" Had you taken anything that night?" 

M No ; nothing but our tea." 

" Do you drink strong tea ?" 

"No sir; I don't like it." 

" Are you a nervous woman?" 

" At times, I think I am." 

11 Were you nervous that night ?" 

" I was not sensible of being so. I was weary, 
and I felt very sad, I was quite excited at times 
before I went to bed, thinking of eternity to come." 

" Mrs. L , can you remember particularly what 

10 



218 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

you were thinking about that evening, j ast before 
you retired to rest ? See if you can recollect, and 
tell me exactly what was in your thoughts just be- 
fore you lay down." 

After a considerable pause she replied, — . 

" I had been thinking and praying a long time, 
about my sins and my wicked, miserable heart ; and 
I tried to give up all into the hands of Christ, as 
you had so often told me I must. I thought I did, 
and then I wondered that God did not give me peace. 
And afterwards I thought how happy I should be, if 
God would give me a new heart ; and then I won- 
dered how I should know it if He did." 

" You thought," said I, " how happy you should 
be, if God would give you a new heart ; and then 
you wondered how you should know it if He did. 
But you did not think of seeing a bird, or a rain- 
bow?" 

She opened her lips as if to answer, but cast her 
eyes downwards, and said nothing. A slight flush 
came over her cheek, but her look was that of sor- 
row, not of resentment. 

Said I : " Mrs. L. , I am sorry to trouble you 

with so many questions, and I do not wish to afflict 
you. Many things you say to me would almost 
convince me that you really had peace with God, 
if these things were not so mixed up with that 
vision which seems to have been the origin of your 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 219 

joy, and which I know was only a dream, or the 
work of your own imagination, while you were half 
asleep and half awake. If you rely, in the least, 
upon that vision, that miracle, as an evidence of 
your pardon ; you rely on a mere fancy, a mere 
nothing. It is no evidence at all. It is just as 
much a proof that you will be lost, as that you will 
be saved. At best, your vision was nothing but a 
fancy, an imagination, coming from your nervous- 
ness, induced by the weariness of your brain when 
you lay down. I can account for your vision. 
You have just given me the clue. You had just 
been thinking ' how happy you should be,' if Grod 
accepted you ; and you had been ' wondering how 
vou should know it.' With these two ideas you 
went to bed, — one idea of great happiness, and the 
other of some wonderful thing, (you knew not 
what,) to lead you to that happiness. Then, in a 
state betwixt sleeping and waking, (when the im- 
agination is most busy, and the reason and will lie 
most still,) your imagination just wrought out the 
expected ivonder, to teach you something, (or con- 
vince you,) and the expected happiness, which you 
so eagerly longed for. This accounts for all you 
thought you beheld. Your eyes saw nothing. As 
soon as your astonishment and ecstasy had so fully 
waked you up, that the spell of your imagination 
was broken, and your eyes really began to see; your 



220 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

vision vanished. This is the truth of the whole 
matter, probably. God had no more to do with 
your light, your rainbow, and your new-fashioned 
canary-bird, than the devil had. 

"Now, Mrs. L. , I have only one thing more 

to ask you ; but I am not certain that I can make 
myself understood. I will try. You know we 
speak of remembering things. We remember, be- 
cause something made an impression on our mind 
sometime before-— a thing capable of being remem- 
bered. We recollect the impression : that is re- 
membering. Eealities make an impression, and 
dreams make an impression also. And we re- 
member both. But when we remember things that 
really took place, we have to recall the impression 
left on our mind by facts, — and when we remember 
dreams, we recall the impression left on our mind 
by imaginations only. Now, there is a difference 
betwixt the impression left on our mind by real 
occurrences, and the impression left on our mind 
by imaginations only, or by a dream ; such a differ- 
ence, that we are not very apt to mistake a dream 
for something that really took place. We can re- 
member both, but they are not just alike. The 
impression of a dream is not exactly like the im- 
pression made by something when we were awake, 
though it may be very plain and deep. But 
there is a difference betwixt the impressions, and 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 221 

also betwixt the rememberings. Don't you think 
so?" 

" Yes, I know there is." 

" Very well. Now I want you to remember very 
carefully what you saw, Thursday night ; and tell 
me whether the impression left on your mind then 
is most like the impression left by a dream, or most 
like the impression left by something when you 
were awake. And tell me whether your act of re- 
membering most remembles the act of remembering 
a dream, or most resembles the act of remembering 
what took place when you were aw r ake. Do you 
understand me ?" 

" Yes sir, perfectly." 

" Very well. Now carefully consider the thing. 
Take time to think of it. Eecollect what you saw 
Thursday night ; and tell me whether your impress- 
ion and recollection of it most resemble the impress- 
ion and recollection of a dream, or something not a 
dream." 

She sat in silence for two or three minutes, closed 
her eyes as if absorbed in thought, then rose and look- 
ed studiously out at the window, then sat down and 
closed her eyes for some two or three minutes more. 

" Indeed, sir," said she, " I am at a loss. That 
does seem more like a dream than like a real thing. 
But I was awake. My eyes were open. I don't re- 
member waking up." 



222 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

Said I "I don't wish, you to reason, or argue, or 
decide anything about it, whether you were asleep or 
awake. I only wish you to tell me as you remem- 
ber that night, whether your impression resembles 
most the impression of a dream, or an impression 
made when you were awake." 

After a pause, she replied slowly and thought- 
fully,- 

" It is just like a dream ; but I was awake, for 
my eyes were open." 

"Very well, madam, I will not trouble you any 
more. If you want to know what religion is, ask 
your Bible, don't ask night birds, or night rainbows.' ' 

I saw this woman afterwards and conversed witli 
her often. Had it not been for her vision, and the 
use she made of it, she would have appeared to me 
to be a humble child of God. But I had no confi- 
dence in her conversion. 

Some few months after this, she proposed to 
unite with the church. I discouraged her. But after 
she had lived about a year as a pious woman, so far 
as I could discover, she was, with much hesitation, 
received as a communicant; and I knew her for 
some years afterwards, presenting satisfactory evi- 
dence of being a true Christian. In one of the last 
interviews I had with her, she told me she had be- 
come convinced that " the strange sights she saw on 
that Thursday night, existed only in her own fancy." 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE, 223 

"W hen I asked what had convinced her, she replied, 
"I have been sick since then two or three times ; and 
when I was sick and very nervous, I had some other 
strange sights which I know were fancies, though 
they seemed as real as that one did." 

" Perhaps they were not fancies." 

" Yes, they were sir." 

"How do you know?" 

" Because, as soon as I went to examine into 
them they were gone. When I got up from the 
bed there was nothing there." 

" Were you always in bed when you saw them?" 

"Yes." 

" What made you get up to examine ?" 

" Because I remembered what you said about the 
bird of Paradise, as I called it, and I was determin- 
ed to know what these things w^ere." 

tl But you could not catch them." 

" No ; as soon as I stirred and got out of bed the 
charm was broken." 

" What were these things you call a charm ?" 

" Various things, such as splendid colors, beauti- 
ful animals, ladies dressed with great taste and in 
very rich, gay dresses, and moving like angels." 

"Are you asleep when these things appear to 
you?" 

" No, not at all ; 1 am awake and thinking." 

" What do you think thev are ?" 



224 THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

" I think they are nothing. But when I have 
been agitated, and become nervous and tired, after 
I get a little calmed down, and feel quiet and happy, 
these beautiful things seem to be before my eyes." 
"Do you see them when your eyes are open?" 
11 Yes, sometimes, when the room is dark." 
" Very well, madam, you have got right now." 
" I wish," said she, " you would not say anything 
about that bird of Paradise, and the blue globe I 
told you about at first. I was deceived. I know 
they had nothing to do with religion, and I do not 
rely upon them at all as any witness that God has 
given me a new heart." 

The religious treatment of persons of strong 
imagination and weak nerves, is one of the most 
delicate and difficult duties. The imagination has 
an extent of power over both the intellect and the 
body itself, of which few persons are suitably aware, 
The voices which are said to be heard by those re- 
ligiously affected, the sights which are seen, the in- 
stances of falling down speechless and without 
power to move, the sudden cures of infirmity, said 
to be effected by the prayer of faith, the deaths 
which have occurred just as the persons themselves 
foretold, and for which they made all their temporal 
arrangements, — all such things are to be attributed 
to the power of the imagination and excited nervea 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 225 

Eeligion lias nothing to do with them. Superstition 
and fanaticism transform them into miracles; but 
there is no miracle about them. Much less is there 
any religion in them. Eeligion is taught in the 
Bible. Ignorance and nerves should not attempt to 
add to it. The east wind is not a good gospel min- 
ister. Many of its doctrines are very incorrect. 

In the case of this woman, the proper influences 
of divine truth were mingled up with the workings 
of an excited imagination and weak nerves, and her 
superstitious notions did not discriminate betwixt 
the two. She at first supposed, with solemn and 
grateful sincerity, that God had sent this vision to 
her as an assurance that she was forgiven. And it 
is not likely that all I said to her would entirely 
have corrected her erroneous idea, had not her sub- 
sequent experience lent its aid. But when she came 
to have other visions which resembled it, and on 
examination found them to be fancies only, her 
common sense led her to the conclusion that nothing 
but fancy created that beautiful light, that rainbow, 
that globe of blue, and bird of Paradise. There 
can be no security against the worst and wildest of 
errors, but by a close and exclusive adherence to the 
Word of God, to teach us what religion is. 

10* 



Sttjuotittoiu 

I was sent for by a woman who was in great dig* 
tress, in respect to lier preparation for death. She 
was fully convinced that she should not live long, 
though now able to ride out daily, and seldom con 
fined to her bed by her infirmity. She was a 
member of a neighboring church ; but she said, — • 
" I have no peace of mind, and no witness that God 
has given me a new heart." 

I had not been acquainted with her before. She 
appeared to be an unimaginative, amiable woman, 
who loved her husband and her children, but she 
had not a very discriminating mind. Her wealthy, 
moral, but irreligious parents had done little for 
her, except to indulge her and train her in the love 
of money, and the enjoyments it can furnish. 

I strove to instruct her in the way of life. I visited 
her almost every week for a long time. She gained 
little or nothing in hope. There was something 
strange about her, which I could not understand. 
Her mind would be drawn off from the very things 



SUPERSTITION. 227 

which I was most anxious to fasten upon it. One 
day she mentioned to me what a " bright witness," 
as she called it, one of her acquaintances had. She 
told me what it was. " It was a great light that 
appeared to her, and filled all the room where she 
was." The silly girl who told her this silly story 
some years before, had sometimes induced her to at- 
tend religious meetings with her, among a class of 
people more apt to see such visions, and more fond 
of them than I am ; and now, the poor woman's 
mind was constantly on the look-out for some such 
" great light." She said, "I want some witness to 
myself." With this expectation her mind was occu- 
pied; it was called off from the truth, and bewildered 
and confused by this superstition. Again and again 
I explained to her the unscriptural nature of all 
such notions, and taught her that such " great lights " 
existed only in the imaginations of people, very 
nervous or very silly, or both. I thought I had 
succeeded in dissipating her superstitious notions, 
and for some months (during the lapse of which I oft- 
en saw her), I had hoped that she was led to put faith 
before fancy, and look to Christ and not to visions, for 
comfort and salvation. But after all this, being in 
trouble she sent for me. I went. She brought up 
the same story of a " great light," and asked me, — 
" Why donH I see some such witness?" 
11 For three reasons," said I ; "first, you are not 



228 SUPERSTITION. 

nervous enough ; second, you are not imag-mative 
enough ; third, you are not quite fool enough." 

Then I went over all the explanations of Bible 
religion again, and all the arguments to demonstrate 
the superstition of such notions as she had about 
some external witness, and expel it from her mind. 
She appeared to be convinced, said she was, and for 
some weeks seemed to enjoy a rational hope in 
Christ. I had a hope for her. 

A few days before her death she sent for me 
again. She was in deep distress, — in despair. She 
asked me if I thought she should " not have some 
such bright witness before she died.' 7 She died 
without it. 

Superstition is mischievous. It hinders the exer- 
cises of faith, where faith exists ; it prevents faith 
where it does not exist. Superstitious people are 
silly. The sights they see, the strange sounds they 
hear, the voices whispering some words or some 
texts of Scripture in their ears, are nothing but fan- 
cies, not facts ; and if they were facts, they would 
be no evidence at all that these persons had become 
the children of God. Bible evidences of religion 
are entirely different. 



C|e aalljistling Cjrinfctr* 

" There are some instances of religious experience 
which can never be reconciled to a theological sys- 
tem." The expression of the old gentlemen startled 

me. I was closeted with the Eev. Dr. P , a 

man turned of seventy' — -a divine of a good deal of 
celebrity in that part of the country. Forty years 
at least his junior, I had sought opportunity to con- 
sult him in respect to some difficulties and peculiar- 
ities, which troubled the hearts of two or three of 
my acquaintances. I wished to learn ; and I thought 
from his years, and his high reputation, that he could 
instruct me. 

I had just stated to him the case of an individual, 
and he made the remark which surprised me. As 
he did not add any explanation, and as I thought 
from his silence that he intended to leave me to di- 
gest the remark as best I could, while he whistled 
and looked out carelessly upon the sky ; I repeated 
his words after him, " there are some instances of 
religious experience which can never be reconciled 
to a theological system," and then I added, — 



230 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

" It appears to me, sir, if that declaration is true, 
then the religious experience of which you speak 
must he false, spurious; or else the theological system 
must be false." 

11 Why?" said he, gruffly. 

" Because, sir, if the experience and the system 
are both true, surely they will not quarrel. Lies 
quarrel sometimes ; truths never do. Things that 
agree with truth agree with each other. If a re- 
ligious experience agrees with truth, (as certainly it 
must, as far as it is religious,) and a theological sys- 
tem agrees with truth, then they are alike ; they 
need no reconciling. • Things equal to the same are 
equal to one another.' " 

" Euclid !" said the queer old man ; and then he 
began to whistle again, and look out at the win- 
dow. In a few minutes he turned to me,- — 

" All you say is true," said he, in a careless man- 
ner ; " but if you live to preach many years, and 
become much acquainted with people, you will find 
some Christians whose experience will not square 
with your theology." 

a Then," said I, " my theology must be false." 

The old man whistled again. I w r aited some time 
for him to finish his tune, doubtful whether he was 
thinking of me at all, or whether he whistled as a 
means of thinking. At last he ceased from his 
music; and, turning his clear, keen eyes upon me, 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 231 

he sat for some time in silence, as if lie would read 
my very soul. I thought he was taking the dimen- 
sions of my understanding; and concluded, there- 
fore, to wail in silence until he should get his 
measure fixed. After awhile, he spoke, — 

" My son, don't you think I can defend the # pro- 
position I laid down, and convince you of its truth ?" 
"No, sir, not if I understand the proposition 
rightly." 

(" Whew,— ) why can't I ?— (Whew, whew.") 
" Because the proposition is not true." 
" Perhaps it is not," said he ; " but suppose you 
should meet with a person presenting every possible 
evidence of true religion in his views, and feelings, 
and conduct, year after year, and yet that same 
person had never been awakened, never had any 
change in his view~s and feelings respecting religion, 
as converts have, and was not in the least sensible 
of having been brought out of darkness into light 
at any time ; how would you reconcile that expe- 
rience with your theology about human depravity, 
and about regeneration ? What would you say of 
such a person, after a sermon on original sin, or on 
conversion ? How could you say he was ' born 
unholy and unclean,' as the Psalm Book has it, but 
had turned to God ?" 

" I would say, sir, that God had led him in a way 
that I knew not of, perhaps in a way that he knew 



232 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

not of, perhaps had renewed his heart in his infancy, 
perhaps had sanctified him before he was born, as he 
sanctified John and Jeremiah. But I would not 
admit, that his experience in religion could not be 
reconciled with my theological system. 77 

After whistling awhile, the old gentleman looked 
up,— 

1 ■ Who taught you to interpret Scripture ? I don 7 t 
believe Jeremiah, and John, and Paul, were sanc- 
tified before they were born. God certainly could 
have sanctified them then, and I believe He does 
sanctify and save infants,- — some that never are 
born ; but the Scriptures do not prove that Jere- 
miah and John were sanctified before they came 
into the world. "What God says to the prophet, 
i Before thou earnest forth out of the womb, I sanc- 
tified thee, and ordained thee a prophet, 7 no more 
proves that Jeremiah was regenerated before he was 
born, than it proves that he was ' ordained a pro- 
phet/ and preached before he was born. The ex- 
pression has reference only to God 7 s predetermina- 
tion, or election. The same is the case in respect 
to John. As to the rest which you said, I agree 
with all that. One may be truly born again, even 
in infancy. 77 

" Well, then, 77 said I, "how can your first decla- 
ration be true, that some Christian experiences can- 
not be reconciled with a system of theology ? ) 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 233 

Again lie whistled for a long time ; then suddenly 
turning to me, as if he had whistled himself up into 
a thought, — 

" It is not true. I supposed that you was a Semi- 
nary man, who had got a system of theology, with 
one leg and one crutch, not able to jump over a 
stump, and that, therefore, you could not reconcile 
your system with the facts you met; and I only 
wished you to understand that divine realities go 
beyond human systematizing, and if men will con- 
fine themselves to their narrow systems, the Holy 
Spirit will go beyond them. The church has been 
greatly injured by such men at times. At one 
period, nothing but doctrines will do ; and so doc- 
trines are preached, and prayed, and sung, till meta- 
physics have frozen piety to death. At another 
time, nothing but practice will do ; and then religion 
soon degenerates into a lifeless form, an outward 
show, with no great doctrines to put life into the 
soul. At one period, nothing but Eevivals will do, 
and Eevival religion ; and then, in the midst of that 
spirit of fanaticism, diffused by some noisy men all 
over the churches, a humble, faithful Christian w r ill 
be looked upon with contempt, because he was not 
converted in a Eevival ; and a minister will lose 
caste, if he does not preach " Revival, Revival" all 
the time. I have seen this again and again. The 
church that needs a minister will cry out, " we want 



234 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

a Revival man, — nothing but a Revival man will do 
for tisf and so they choose for a minister some proud 
boaster, who can talk of " Bevival " more than of 
Christ. And another result of this proud spirit is, 
that when it prevails in our churches, our people 
by-and-bye come to undervalue the common means 
of grace, and they become periodical Christians; and 
then they undervalue the faithful Christian educa- 
tion of their children ; they forget that the God of 
Abraham is still alive, and on the throne, a covenant- 
keeping Grod ; they do not expect religious education 
in the family to be an effectual means of conversion, 
— they rely upon Revivals. And it soon comes to 
pass that the Eevivals are scenes of mere excite- 
ment, delusion, and spiritual pride, — •* stand aside, I 
am holier than thou.' At another period, the oppo- 
site error prevails. Eevivals are looked upon with 
suspicion. They are not desired and prayed for. 
All excitement is feared. And then religion will 
run down into formality, and people will join the 
church when they get old enough, or when they 
get to have a family. There are many truly pious 
people who have become such under the influence 
of example and instruction in the family, and under 
the ordinary Sabbath-preaching, who never could 
give you an}^ special account, — certainly not a Re- 
vival account of their conversion. These would not 
suit a Revival Christian And Revival convert* 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 235 

would not suit them. But all such, things are wrong. 
They are the results of narrow systems." 

Then he whistled again. But before I could col- 
lect my thoughts for any reply, he broke off from 
his tune in the middle of a bar, — 

"A theological system, sir, every minister of sense 
will have. He cannot get along without it. A man 
can no more do without a system, than he can do 
without a head. But what I was after, is this: 
there are men of narrow views, linked to their sys- 
tem, and thinking their system contains all that 
religion contains ; and they would not let an}'body 
cast out devils any more than the disciples would, 
unless he would do it by their rule. These men 
love their system, and preach their system, and live 
in it, like a worm in a nut, and never get out of it, 
till, like such a worm, they get wings to fly beyond 
it. When death gives them wings to fly to heaven, 
they are out of their jail, and not before. In my 
opinion, Dr. Woods is such a man as Dr. Porter 
w r as before him. Dr. Taylor is such a man, (almost 
as much fettered as the rest of them.) Dr. Alexan- 
der, (one of the ripest saints,) is such a man. Dr. 
Dwight was such a man. And if you want an in- 
stance of such a man, whose fetters everybody can 
see, (and hear them jingle, too, at every step he 
takes,) look at Dr. Emmons, (poor fellow!) These 
are system men. Examine Dwighfs Hymn Book 



236 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

How narrow its range is ! How lean ! It is worse 
than one of Pharaoh's lean heifers ! It has just a 
few r subjects; and passes oyer more than half the 
region of song, without a single note. I never could 
be confined to it. I would as soon consent to be 
confined to four tunes. Mear, Old Hundred, St. 
Martin's, and Durham, would do as well for all our 
music, as D wight's Hymn Book for all our poetry. 

" Now, my son, never get into a strait-jacket. 
You will find it pinch. It w r ill make your bones 
ache. Many a minister becomes more familiar with 
his theological system than he is with his Bible ; 
and not only so, but his system stands first, and 
when he gets hold of a text, he interprets it to 
square with his system, instead of paring and whit- 
ling off his system to make it agree with the text ; 
and among his pastoral duties, he sticks to his Cal- 
vanism more than he sticks to Christ ; and he would 
pray his system too, if the Holy Spirit didn't make 
his prayers for him. And in this way he systems 
his Bible into a corner, and his own soul into a nut- 
shell. Never do that, in the pulpit or among the 
people. ' Preach the Word' — the Word, my son, — 
the Word ! Are you a Calvinist ?" said he, gen- 
tly, after speaking in a voice of thunder. 

" Yes, sir," said I. 

" Then don't be afraid of an Arminian text : don't 
dodge, w r hen 3 r ou come across one. Out with it; it 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 237 

is God's text and he don't want you to mince it. 
Are } 7 ou a Seminary boy?" 

"No, sir." 

"Down on your knees, and thank God for it." 

" I have thanked Him, sir, a hundred times." 

"You'll thank Him ten thousand, if you live to 
my age." 

M Are you opposed to what is called Calvinism?" 
I asked. 

u By no means. I am a Calvinist. But I let the 
Bible make my Calvinism, instead of bringing my 
Calvinism to make Bible ; and I claim the liberty 
of going along with my Bible, into a thousand cor- 
ners beyond the limits of the system." 

" You mentioned Dr. Taylor, with a sort of 
doubtful compliment about his being fettered ; some 
ministers in my neighborhood have talked to me a 
great deal about Dr. Taylor. Let me ask whether 
you regard him as heretical?" 

" No ! I don't. But Dr. Taylor has committed the 
Connecticut sin! He is guilty of thinking, sir, of 
tfrinking ; and for that reason, some people over in 
Jersey and Pennsylvania, and some in York State, 
count him a half heretic. But he only thinks, sir, 
that's all : and thinking is his original sin, and ac- 
tual transgression too. Now, don't join in and cry 
^mad dog 1 about Dr. Taylor. Wait, till you are 
sure you see the froth. His hoys don't understand 



238 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

him. Dr. Taylor isn't a Taylorite. Far from it, sir. 
His boys are Taylorites, but he isn't. I have had 
long talks with a whole score of ministers educated 
under him, and I KNOW that not one Taylorite among 
them understands Dr. Taylor's scheme." 

" What is his scheme, sir?" 

" His scheme of doctrine is John Calvin's, or Johb 
Howe's, or Edwards', substantially : his scheme of 
philosophy is his own, and no honor to him. Why, 
sir, he believes in original sin, and in the special 
influences of the Holy Spirit, (whether his boys do 
or not,) as much as you or I do. He wouldn't use 
my lingo, or, as he would express it, i ter-mo-xol- 
o-gy,' because he must have a word as long as Yale 
College, to suit ' the appropriate circumstances of 
his being ;' but he preaches the same doctrines that 
I do. He is sound at the core. (I don't like his 
philosophy.) But you get into & fight, and Dr. Tay- 
lor will be one of the best backers you could have. 
He thinks" 

" You mentioned several men, sir," said I, " whose 
praise is in all the churches ; but I do not exactly 
understand in what rank you mean to place them. 
Do you mean to speak of Dwight, and Taylor, 
and Alexander, and Emmons, as men of little 
mind?" 

" Not little, my son ; not little; but limited, narrow. 
Every one of them is more or less entangled with a 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 239 

system. Dr. Taylor came nearer to be a free man 
than any of the rest of them, when he was young. 
He flung off the system fetters nobly ; but, like a 
goose, he went to w r ork and hammered out a pair of 
his own, and they have galled him worse than the 
old ones would. The old ones had been used and 
got smooth — the rust worn off. These men are great 
men, very great men. They are good men ; men of 
truth and faith and devoted godliness. They are 
safe men, to teach jou on all the fundamental points. 
I should count you a heretic, and would not ask 
you to preach for me, if you did not agree with 
them on all the fundamentals ; not because you dis- 
agreed with them, but because, disagreeing with them ? 
I should know you disagreed with the Bible. My 
complaint about them is two-fold ; first, they let their 
system limit their scope and range ; and second, they 
put their system foremost in all religion." 

" Well, sir, do you object to theological systems, 
catechisms, and confessions of Faith ?" 

" No, no H said he, impatiently. " I thought you 
could understand me ! I am no opponent of con- 
fessions of faith. If a man tells you he will have 
no creed or confession to stick to, (' nothing but the 
Bible,') set him down for a heretic or an idiot, or 
both. He has a creed if he is a Christian at all. 
And he will stick to it, if he walks in the Spirit, 
whether he is in the pulpit or in society. Yes sir ; 



240 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

he has a creed, if lie is not a downright fool I In- 
deed, my young friend, our greatest danger at the 
present moment, throughout the whole of New Eng- 
land, lies just hen ; we have too much shortened our 
creeds, and forgotten our confessions, and ceased to 
preach the great doctrines. The doctrines are the 
great things after all. One of our prominent men, 
now preaching in the capital of our State, courts 
popularity by an occasional sneer at ' old, dead or- 
thodoxy,' as he calls it. He is doing injury to the 
cause of truth. The seeds of error which he is sow- 
ing will spring up by-and-bye. If he does not 
become a heretic himself, his admirers and followers 
will. He does not believe the Westminster Con- 
fession of Faith, in my opinion ; and, if that was a 
standard now among our churches and ministers, as 
it was once, when the Catechism was taught in all 
our schools, we should not have so many creedless 
ministers among us, ignorantly working to under- 
mine the great principles of the Eeformation, by 
sneering at 'old, dead orthodoxy/ like the Eev. 

Dr. . They hate the doctrines, sir. So you see 

I am not against systems and creeds ; but I want a 
minister to have a creed, and a heart too. I want 
him to have a system ; and then I want him to 
know that his system does not contain everything, and 
that he himself does not know everything. The 
Bible has a depth, and a richness, and an extent too, 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 241 

in its meaning, which no human system can express, 
Preach your text my boy, your text, right out, and 
not your system." 

The old man had waxed quite warm. He forgot 
to whistle, or look out at the window. I liked to 
hear him talk, and I was not disposed to have him 
think me quite such a novice as his manner towards 
me (though he was kind), seemed to indicate that 
he did. So I replied, — 

"Perhaps I do understand you, sir, more fully 
than you give me credit for. But when you say, 
4 if I live to preach many years, and become much 
acquainted with people, I shall find some Christians 
whose experience cannot be reconciled with a Theo- 
logical system,' I must still beg leave to say I do 
not believe it." 

" / took that back" said he instantly. " I said 
that on the supposition that you were a Seminary 
man, cut to the length of the bedstead, and foolishly 
making your system everything." 

" But, sir, you supposed a case of inexplicable 
conversion, and asked me how I could reconcile it 
with my Theological system." 

" So I did ; but I thought then you were a Eevi- 
valist, and I wanted to trip up your heels, so that 
you might pick yourself up and plant yourself on 
firm ground, and not think that all religion must 
work exactly according to your Eevival mode. I 

11 



242 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

told you that I agreed to all yon said about that sap- 
posed case." 

" Perhaps you did, sir ; but you afterwards said 
'the Holy Ghost will go beyond systems; 7 while I 
maintain that as certainly as my system is true, hu- 
man experience in religion will neither contradict 
my system nor go beyond it." 

" I meant to take that back, my son, I take it 
back now ; if you are not a Seminary man or a Ee- 
vivalist, or mounted on some other limping hobby. 
I only employed an expression to set you thinking. 
Mark me ; I am not opposed to Theological Semina- 
ries or to Kevivals, I am only opposed to the inju- 
ries and abuses that grow out of them. If ministers 
and their people come to think that nothing but Ee- 
vival will do, or nothing but a Seminary system 
will do ; true religion will soon be eclipsed, either by 
fanaticism or bigotry, — and I want you to think 
about it. If Theological Seminaries w r ould learn 
their place, and learn to keep it, they would do good. 
They may be good servants of the church, but they 
will be very bad masters of it. They want to be 
masters. Such is human nature. The church would 
do well to watch them. Cambridge is a beacon in 
my eye. The seeds of heresy and fanaticism are 
now sown thick, by those men who seek popularity 
by crying out l Revival, Revival, and Seminary, Semi- 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 243 

nary.' I am disgusted with their pride and their 
popularity -hunting." 

The old man turned to the window again, and 
struck up another tune in a sort of low, whispering 
whistle. But before I had mustered my thoughts 
enough to know what to reply, he suddenly turned 
to me, solemnly, — 

" Now we have come here to preach in a Eevival. 
The Eevival is God's work, and I rejoice in it. The 
converts here will appear very much alike ; but let 
us not think that all other true converts must ap- 
pear just so too, in their awakening, and repentance, 
and hope. There are many persons, (especially 
those who have had a careful Christian education, 
and have always been under the influences of Chris- 
tian truth and example,) who come to be true Chris- 
tians, and nobody can tell when they were converted, 
— they can't tell themselves. The Holy Spirit has 
led them gently and softly along. We can judge 
of them by their fruits, by their attachment to the 
great doctrines of truth, and their life of faith. We 
must not judge of them by the way in which they 
were converted. In all the substantial parts of re- 
ligion, all true converts will be much alike. Their 
faith will be the same, their repentance the same, 
their reliance on Christ the same ; and they will all 
hold substantially the same great doctrines, — (in 
their hearts, whether they do in their heads or not,) 



244 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

because it is by these doctrines, law to condemn, 
and grace to deliver, that the Holy Spirit moulds 
hearts. He moulds them alike. And for that rea- 
son I say that the doctrines, sir, the doctrines are our 
tools first, and our tests afterward. The Doctrines 
are the best Eevival sermons, — mind, the best 
Nettleton always preaches them. But we must not 
expect all our people who are converted, to feel 
them alike suddenly, or alike deeply : — 

' God moves in a mysterious way, 
His wonders to perform.' 

But it is God who performs the wonders ; and He 
performs them through His own truth. I am willing 
that He should use the truth suddenly or slowly, 
and convert a man as He converted Paul, or as He 
converted John." 

"That is a part of my theological system, sir," 
said I. 

" Then you and I agree," said he, with a smile. 
" You are not hood- winked or trammelled with a 
Seminary system or a Eevival system. I perceive 
you think ; and that makes me like you." 

Turning again to the window, he struck up an- 
other tune, as his eye wandered over the valleys and 
the distant mountains of blue. Whistling seemed 
to be as natural to him as breathing. He appeared 
to whistle up his thoughts. And again, before I 



THE WHISTLING THINKER 245 

had time to contrive what to say, he turned to 
me, — 

" Generations have their fashions, their foibles, as 
much as women about their dress. Seminaries and 
Eevivals are the fashion of our age and country. 
These things have their advantages, but they have 
their disadvantages also. The two great dangers of 
the church in our day are these : — the church must 
have no ministers but Seminary ministers, and no 
religion but Revival religion. Both these exclusive 
preferences are wrong, foolish, and short-sighted. 
They do, indeed, partly balance each other ; and so 
our Seminary ministers do not become altogether 
hook ministers, — theorizing, speculative, and heart- 
less as metaphysics ; and our Revival ministers do 
not all become fanatics, with a bad heart, and no 
head. But the time will come, if Grod has good 
things in store for us, when the church will again 
welcome ministers who have never seen a public 
Seminary, and will welcome converts who do not 
tell a stereotyped story about their Revival conversion. 
These two hobbies of the age will get old and w r orn 
out by-and-bye ; and then the church will be wiser 
than she is now. These hobbies have worked well ; 
but the Seminary hobby is very stiff in the joints, 
and the Revival hobby has had his wind injured." 

" To hear you talk," said I, " one would think 
you believed in a gradual regeneration." 



246 THE WHISTLING THINKER. 

"I believe," said lie, "in instantaneous regenera- 
tion in all cases. But I do not, on that account, 
maintain that every regenerated sinner must be able 
to tell when lie was regenerated. He may not know 
when, and never know till the day of judgment. 
But, in my opinion, he will know who regenerated 
him. I have very much ceased to ash persons 
whom I examine for reception into the church, 
when they became religious, or how their minds 
were affected. Principles are a far better test than 
mere emotions. They are more reliable, and more 
ascertainable too. My way now is, to inquire about 
their views of doctrine, of truth, and about some of 
their religious feelings at the present time. In my 
opinion, many a true child of God is afraid to come 
to God's table, and is kept away, simply because he 
cannot tell such an experience as he has heard of in 
others, and as he has been led to think universal 
with all true converts. He has had none of that 
blazing experience, (which I call comet religion, be- 
cause nobody can tell where it comes from, or 
where it goes to, or what it is good for,) because he 
has been led gently to Christ, following the still, 
small voice, and does not know when or how he 
begun to trust Him, — only, that God has led him, 
as he never would have gone of himself. He has 
had principle, and conscience, and purpose, and 
faith, but not tumultuous and whirlwind emotion. 



THE WHISTLING THINKER. 247 

And, as I said before, in my opinion, there are 
many true Christians, who have been well taught 
from their youth, that never can tell when they 
turned to God ; and if they attempt to fix on the 
day of the month, they will fix it wrong, — some, too 
soon, and many, too late." 

" You spoke a little while since of mere excite- 
ments, fanaticism, and heresy, sir. I have a special 
reason for asking you, what is the fit mode of coun- 
teracting such evils?" 

Instantly, he replied, with slow and measured 
words, — 

" Preach on the character of God. Then, on the de- 
pravity of man. Then, on the nature of holiness. Then, 
on secret prayer I All fanatics have got a new God ! 
My boy, I want you to take notice (put an N. B. to 
it, in your memory,) how the Bible in order to tear 
up error by the roots, brings up God Himself, and 
tells what He is. The old prophets do it, all 
through : ' Thus saith the Lobd God : besides Me 
there is none else : / change not : holy, holy, holy, 
is the Lord.' The Apostles do it. Paul is full of 
it. He employed it on Mars' Hill, to convert the 
Athenian philosophers : he used it to knock over 
those who doubted about the resurrection ; ' thou 
fool] says he, ' God giveth it a body !' Peter used 
it ; i one day with the Lord is as a thousand years !' 
All the Divine writers have it. It is their familiar 



THE WHISTLING THINKER, 248 

thunder and lightning ; and I advise you to borrow 
a little of it. It will purify the atmosphere all 
around you."* 

In very much this strain, my aged counsellor 
went on for an hour, — relieved only by a whistling 
interlude; and sometimes, after a pause, roused 
again to utter some great truth, by some question 
which I ventured to ask him. He was full of 
thought. I have never listened to a man of more 
independent mind, or whose conversation was more 
rich in suggestions. He thought deeply and care- 
fully, though perhaps many wise men would be 
slow to adopt all his opinions about men or about 
things. 

My interview with him was of great use to me. 
He put me to thinking, which, he said, was "all 
that he aimed at." 

Years afterwards, I was forcibly reminded of him, 
by a case which I am about to relate, and which I 
have here, in the following sketch, denominated 
Unconscious Conversion. 

* When the Rev. Mr. Backus was ordained successor to Dr. 
Bellamy, in 1791, there was an aged, pious negro, belonging to the 
church. Soon after Mr. Backus' ordination, some one asked this 
negro how he liked Mr. Backus, whether he thought him equal to 
Dr. Bellamy. His reply was : " Like Master Backus very much- 
great man— good minister, but not equal to Master Bellamy. 
Master Backus make God big, but Master Bellamy make God bigger." 



(ttiuoitrcioits Coitberstoiu 

In the discharge of pastoral duty I have never 
been more deeply interested or more perplexed, than 
I was in the case of a very affectionate and intelli- 
gent woman, whom I knew with great intimacy for 
several years. She was a married woman before I 
became acquainted with her. She was young 
in life, I suppose not more than twenty-five, 
and her husband was probably about thirty — not a 
religious man. I visited her as her pastor, soon 
after she had removed from another part of the 
country, and taken up her residence in the place 
where I lived. I was much pleased with her. She 
was a woman of refined manners, of excellent sense, 
of trained mind, of gentle and affectionate disposi- 
tion, but withal of unusual firmness, having a mind 
and a heart of her own. Few women, as I believe, 
have ever adorned their station more than she 
adorned hers. As a wife, mother, friend ; as a neigh- 
bor, as a daughter, (for I became acquainted with 
her parents and knew her demeanor towards them,) 
she was a pattern of propriety. A stranger to her 

11* 



250 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

might have deemed her manner somewhat reserved 
and cold, (as indeed it was to strangers,) for there 
was no forwardness about her. She was modest, 
unassuming, unobtrusive. But her reserve wore off 
by acquaintance; and though she never became 
imprudent, and never lost a just sense of a woman's 
dignity, she became peculiarly confiding and com- 
panionable. However, she was rather taciturn than 
talkative. Like a woman of sense, she took care 
whom she trusted, and what she said. 

But there was a shade of melancholy which seemed 
to hang around her, quite noticeable to a keen ob- 
server, and yet not so distinct as to be visible, per- 
haps, to most of her acquaintance. Her half pensive 
look gave an additional interest to her intelligent 
countenance, (which had no small claims to be de- 
nominated beautiful,) and indeed there seemed to 
be a cast of sadness thrown over the very move- 
ments of her tall and graceful figure. 

"When I first became acquainted with her, I noticed 
this tender melancholy which hung around her like 
the shadow of a cloud ; and I supposed that the 
twilight of some affliction still lingered around her 
heart, or that some secret grief was buried deep in 
her own bosom. After a more intimate acquaintance 
with her, I came to the conclusion that she had some 
trial of which she never spoke, but which preyed in 
secret upon her heart. I thought her appearance 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION, 251 

indicative of a concealed grief, which, like a worm 
in the bud, was preying upon her life. 

On- account of this opinion, I aimed to mention 
the subject of religion to her, in the most delicate 
and affectionate manner possible. I called upon her 
for that purpose. I found her alone. After a few 
moments of conversation I said to her, — 

" I have several times mentioned the subject of 

religion to you, Mrs. C , but you have been 

quite reserved ; and I have called upon you to-day to 
converse with you upon that subject, if you will 
allow me such a favor."' 

" I am glad to see you, sir." 

" Allow me to ask you whether you are a member 
of the church ?" 

" No sir, I am not." 

" And do you think you are still living in unbe- 
lief, after all your opportunities?" 

" I suppose, sir, I have no reason to think I am a 
Christian," said she, with a look of mingled solem- 
nity and sorrow. 

" Is it wise for you to neglect your salvation ?" 

11 1 know it is not wise, sir. My own heart con- 
demns me," said she with much emotion. 

" Then, madam, do not neglect it any longer. 
The favor of God is within your reach. He calls to 
you in His gracious kindness, and invites you to 
turn to Him for pardon and peace, freely offered to 



252 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

you through the great Redeemer of sinners. But 
how comes it about, Mrs. C , that you have neg- 
lected salvation so long ?" 

"I do not know, indeed, sir. I suppose I have 
been too worldly, and too much led away by my 
own heart, though I have thought about religion a 
great deal all my life." 

"I suppose so too. And I know you ought, in- 
stantly, to l deny yourself, and take up your cross 
and follow Jesus Christ, ' and not suffer your heart 
to be led away any longer." 

She was much affected. I asked her some ques- 
tions which she did not answer, because (as I then 
supposed), of a conflict in her own mind, betwixt a 
sense of duty and the love of the world. I there- 
fore urged her as solemnly and affectionately as I 
could, to give her attention to religion without delay, 
and left her. 

Again I called to see her. I inquired, — 
" Have you been giving your attention to religion 
since I saw you?" 

11 1 have thought of it very often, sir." 
"And have you prayed about it very often?" 
" I have tried to pray," said she sadly ; " but I do 
not know as it was true prayer." 

" Do you feel }^our need of God's blessing, as an 
undone sinner, condemned by the law of God, and 
having ? wicked heart?" 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 253 

" Sometimes I think I feel it ; but I suppose I do 
not feel it as much as I ought to." 

11 Do you feel that you need Christ to save you ?" 

"I know it, sir; but I am afraid I do not feel it. 
My heart seems hard, very hard; I wonder at my- 
self, my stupid self." 

" It must be a very senseless or stupid heart, my 
dear friend, if it cannot feel the most solemn matter, 
save one, in all the universe. Nothing short of per- 
dition itself, can be a more affecting and solemn 
thing, than to be an undone sinner without Christ 
to save you !" 

"I am very sensible of my stupidity. I have 
often wondered at myself. I have tried to feel, 
but " 

She was overcome by this thought, and could not 
finish the sentence. She wept bitterly, though she 
evidently strove hard to control her emotions. " Par- 
don my infirmity, sir," said she. " I do not know 
why it is, but I cannot restrain my feelings. I hope 
you will not think me quite a child." 

I assured her of my entire respect for her, and my 
attachment to her as a friend ; that I was unwilling 
to say one word to make her unhappy, but that I 
wanted her attention to a happiness unequalled and 
everlasting. 

" I know it, sir, I know it ; and I thank you for 
all your kindness to me," said she with tears. 



254 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION 

I besought her to " come freely, and affectionately, 
and fully to Christ, without any distrust and with- 
out any delay, because salvation is by free grace. 

Afterwards I had several interviews with her, in 
all of which she was solemn and much affected, but 
ordinarily her words were few. I told her from 
time to time the same truths, which I was accus- 
tomed to urge upon the attention of other anxious in- 
quirers. I referred her to the same texts, the same 
promises, the same cautions and directions. Months 
passed on in this way, and still she found no peace 
of mind, no hope. She did not come out of her 
darkness into the light of faith, as I had so long and 
so confidently expected ; nor did she become any 
less solemn or less studious or less tender in feeling, 
as latterly I had so much feared. Indeed, at al- 
most every interview I had with her, she would be 
melted into tears in spite of all her efforts ; and then 
she would beg me to " pardon her weakness," as she 
called it, and apologizing for her emotions, she 
would say, — "I would not afflict you with these 
tears if I could help it. I know it must be painful 
to you to see me affected in this manner, after all 
you have done for me ; and I feel that my state of 
mind is but a poor return for your kindness. Bat 
I assure you, my dear Pastor, I am not ungrateful 
to you, if I am unhappy." 

I soothed and comforted her all in my power, 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 255 

with the promises of God, and encouragements to 
trust in Him. I reasoned with her, and aimed to 
reach her conscience, and win her heart to the love 
of Christ. Again and again I taught her all God's 
truth, which I thought adapted to her state of mind. 
She heard it all attentively, kindly, and, as I some- 
times thought, gladly. She never uttered an objec- 
tion, complaint, or excuse. I confidently believed, 
as she continued to seek the Lord so assiduously, 
she would soon find peace, or be left to return to 
indifference. But it was not so with her. Through 
many months she continued, so far as / could see, 
in the same state,- — solemn, tender, prayerful ordi- 
narilv, but uncomforted. 

Her condition perplexed me, and very much 
grieved me. I had become greatly attached to her 
as a friend, and I believe she respected and loved 
me as her minister ; and I could feel no reconcilia- 
tion to the idea that she should continue in this 
unhappy condition. I blamed myself very much, 
for I supposed I must have failed to instruct her 
appropriately, even though she was desirous to be 
taught, — perhaps had not sufficiently explained the 
way of salvation, insisting upon those great doc- 
trines of truth, through which the Holy Spirit leads 
sinners to repentance. Consequently I called upon 
her again, resolved to probe her heart, and, after 
eome little conversation, inquired of her,— 



256 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

" Have you yet found your heart at peace with 
God ?" 

" No sir, I am not at peace, — I am far from it," 

"Do you still remain in the same state of mind 
that you have been in so long ?" 

"I am sorry to say, sir, that I can tell you 
nothing new about myself, — nothing different from 
what I have told you before." 

" And certainty, madam, I can tell you nothing 
new, — can preach no new gospel, can tell you 
nothing different from what I have told you before. 
If you do not obey the gospel, nothing can save 
you. The gospel will not change. You must 
change. The gospel offers Christ to you, to en- 
lighten you, to atone for you, to defend you from 
every danger. And since this offer is so free, and 
so kind, and so appropriate, and is made in the in- 
finite sincerity of God, what hinders you that you 
do not accept it, and trust your Saviour humbly, 
penitently, gladly ?" 

" I wish, sir, I could tell what hinders," said she, 
sadly. 

" My dear friend," said I, " have you ever really 
felt, and do you feel now, that you are an undone 
sinner, and have infinite need of Christ to save 
you?" 

" Yes sir, I think I do. I never have had any 
doubt of that. I know I am undone, and I know I 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 257 

need Christ; but perhaps I do not feel it as I 
should." 

" Do you ivant to feel it ?" 

" Yes, I know I do" said she, with some diffi- 
culty, and burst into tears. "I have prayed a great 
many times to be enabled to feel it more, if that is 
what I lack." 

" Allow me to ask you if you have ever been 
fully convinced that you have by nature an evil 
heart, depraved, l deceitful above all things, and des- 
perately wicked ?' " 

" Yes sir ; I know I have. I cannot conceive 
how anybody can doubt that, after examining him- 
self at all. Perhaps I am worse than I suppose, or 
I should not continue in this sad state. I am fully 
sensible there is nothing in myself but sin." 

" And do you think you can make your heart 
any better ?" 

"I am sure I can do nothing for myself. Certain- 
ly, I ought to be convinced of that by this time." 

" Are you fully sensible that nothing but the 
Holy Spirit can meet the necessities of your poor 
heart, and bring you to Christ ?" 

" Yes, I have long felt it. I am sure I ought to 
know that, for I have tried often enough of myself 
to turn to God, and my heart is still the same." 

" Why don't you give that heart to God, and 



258 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

trust Him to renew it and control it, since you find 
all your own efforts yam?" 

" I have often tried to do so, but it seems to be all 
useless." 

" Do you constantly pray for Divine assistance ?" 

" I have always been accustomed to pray, in my 
poor way. At times I have neglected prayer for a 
little while, when I thought it did no good, and was 
afraid I should rely too much upon the mere act of 
praying, and when I have thought God would not 
accept such prayers as mine. But I do not often 
neglect daily prayer." 

" Do you seek the Lord with ail your heart ?" 

" I suppose not, sir ; for if I did I should not re- 
main in this miserable condition. I try, but it seems 
I fail." 

" Do you rely upon any righteousness of your 
own to save you, or commend you to Christ ?" 

" I have no righteousness. I know very well 
there is nothing in me but sin and misery." 

"Do you try to make a righteousness out of re- 
pentance, or humiliation, or faith, and thus expect 
your religion to commend you to the Saviour ? Sin- 
ners sometimes seek religion, and think they must. 
But the Bible never tells them to seek religion — it 
tells them to ' seek the Lord. 1 And when they seek 
religion, in order to have their religion render them 
acceptable to God, all that is nothing but an opera- 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 259 

tion of a self-righteous spirit. Do you think of 
being accepted in this way, instead of expecting 
God to receive you as you are, a sinner to be saved ?" 

" Perhaps it maybe so, through the deceitfulness 
of my heart ; but I am not conscious of it. I have 
thought of that point very often, since you explained 
to me the difference betwixt trusting to the righteous- 
ness of Christ, and aiming to establish a righteous- 
ness of our own." 

" Don't you love the world too well ?" 

" The love of the world tempts me, I am afraid, 
sometimes ; but I feel that I am willing to forsake 
all for Christ." 

" Are you willing now to give up yourself into 
the hands of Christ to save you, denying yourself 
in order to serve Him?" 

" It seems to me that I am ; but I suppose it can- 
not be so, for if I was I should not feel as I do." 

M Christ offers to receive you freely, now, just as you 
are. He invites you to trust Him. Why do you 
refuse ?" 

"I do try ; I have tried ; I have tried for a long 

time, but I " (her voice faltered, she could say 

no more.) I waited a little time for her to become 
composed, and then inquired, — 

" Let me ask you, my dear friend, with all respect 
and affection, don't you indulge in some sin (sin of 
enmity, or envy, or discontent, or something else), 



260 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

some sin that keeps you from peace of conscience 
and peace with. God ?" 

" No sir, I am not conscious of any such sin. I 
know I sin all the time. 1 struggle against it, but 
I do not indulge myself in any sin that I know of. 
If there is any such thing that keeps me from my 
Saviour, I should be glad to know w r hat it is." 

I recited to her some of the divine promises and 
directions as I had often done before, prayed with 
her, and left her. 

Such conversations with her were repeated. She 
continued still the same. It was evident, as I thought, 
that I had not been able to profit her at all. In 
order to have a more perfect knowledge of her, if 
possible, I sometimes called upon her without say- 
ing a word upon the subject of religion. Her man- 
ner was cordial, and her conversation cheerful ; but 
the old shade of pensiveness that hung around her, 
like a mysterious spirit, cast a sort of tender and 
touching melancholy over her whole appearance. 

Several years had now passed away since my ac- 
quaintance with her commenced. She had been call- 
ed to pass through some severe trials, in which I 
had sympathized with her and aimed to lead her to 
improve them rightly. She appeared to repose in 
me the most perfect confidence, told me her sorrows, 
consulted me in her difficulties, but continued with- 
out hope. 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 261 

At one time I had great expectation that she 
would soon turn to her Lord in faith. She had a 
daughter, a young girl of sixteen perhaps, who be- 
came interested about religion and was led to hope 
in the mercy of God through Jesus Christ. For 
this lovely daughter she was most intensely anxious 
and prayerful. I strove to make use of this solicit- 
ude for her child, and of God's mercy to her, now 
in the bloom of her youth and beauty, as a means 
of leading the pensive-hearted mother to the same 
fountain of life. All this failed. 

On one occasion when I called to see her, I asked, — 

11 Have you made any progress towards religion ?" 
With trembling voice she answered, — 

"I do not know as I can say anything to you, 
sir, on that subject, which I have not often said to 
you before. I am sorry to be obliged to tell you so, 
It must be very discouraging and unpleasant to you, 
after all your kindness and attempts to do me good. 
I do feel grateful to you for your attentions to me 
and to my child ; but I make you a poor return when 
I am always compelled to tell you the same thing 
about myself, and meet you with these tears. I 
know it must be unpleasant to you. I wonder you 
have not been discouraged with me and left me 
long ago." 

"My dear lady, don't think of me. It is God, 
whose kindness ought to affect you, and attract you 



262 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

instantly to his arms. I am sorry for you— my 
lieart bleeds for you. I cannot give you up. I do 
believe God lias mercy in store for you." 

"I am sure my lieart requites your kindness, my 
dear pastor ; I am not ungrateful for it." 

" And will you be grateful to God, to Christ Jesus, 
your suffering Lord, who bore the curse for you, 
who grappled with death and the devil for you, and 
opened your way into heaven ?" 

"I hope I am not ungrateful to Him," said she, 
sobbing aloud. 

" Do you trust in Him, as a Friend to save you?" 

"Oh I I am afraid not." 

" You may — a thousand times, ' you may J i Come, 
for all things are ready.' " 

I could only exhort her, and pray for her. 

I called on her again, and our interview was 
much the same as usual. I did not know but I was 
making her unhappy by my constant solicitations, 
and perhaps doing her harm ; so I said to her, — 

" My dear child, I will not press this subject upon 
your attention any more, if it is unpleasant to you 
to have me mention it. I have loved you, and 
aimed to do you good; but I have failed. I do 
not wish to make you unhappy. I will leave you 
hereafter entirely to yourself, if you desire it, and 
never say a word more to you on the subject of 
your religion." 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 263 

Covering her face again with her handkerchief, 
she wept convulsively, as I went on to say, — 

"I will clo just as you desire; I will continue to 
offer 3'ou Christ and his salvation, or be silent on 
the whole subject, just as is most agreeable to " 

" Oh, sir" (interrupting me,) "I do not wish you 
to leave me. I wonder your patience has not been 
exhausted, and I am sensible it must pain you to 
see me always in this tearful condition. I am 
sorry to make you unhappy ; but I hope you will 
never think me pained by your visits. I am not, I 
assure you. Almost my only hope is " 

She could say no more, and I could utter no 
reply. I prayed with her, and promised to see her 
again. She demanded a promise. 

On a future occasion, as I was conversing with 
her, I asked her, — 

" Is it not strange that you do not love such a 
God?" 

Greatly to my surprise, she answered, — 

" I think I do love God, sir." 

"How long do you think you have loved Him?" 

" Ever since I was a little child. I cannot re- 
member the time when I did not love Him. It has 
always seemed to me, as well as I know my own 
heart, that I did love God." 

With amazement, I inquired, — 

" Why did you never tell me this before ?" 



264 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

" I was afraid you would tliink me better than I am." 

11 And do you hate sin ?" 

" I have always hated it, (if I can judge of my 
own feelings,) ever since I can remember. 7 ' 

" Why do you hate sin ?" 

11 Because it offends Grod, it is wrong, and be- 
cause it makes me unhappy." 

" Do you desire to be free from it?" 

" Yes, I do, if I know anything at all of my own 
desires." 

" Do you love to pray ?" 

"Yes, I love to pray, — it is my most precious 
comfort. Sometimes I feel it a task, I am afraid ; 
when I fear that I am not sincere, and that my 
prayers are an offense." 

" Is prayer a relief to you in trouble ?" 

" Sometimes it is. At other times a burden lies 
on my heart, which I cannot leave with Gtod ; in- 
deed, commonly I have a burden left, because I am 
afraid I am not riefht with Grod." 

" Do you rely on Christ to save you?" 

"I have nothing else to rely upon; but I am 
afraid I do not rely upon Him as much as I ought." 

a Do you 'Wish to rely upon Him?" 

" Yes, I do. It is my constant prayer that I may 
be able to do so. I know He is able and willing to 
save even me, unworthy as I am. I have never 
doubted that." 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 265 

II Are you willing to trust Him to save you ?" 

II I certainly wish to trust Him." 

"Do you receive Him as your Saviour?" 

" I hope so ; I try to do it." 

" Do you feel grateful for what He has done for 
you?" 

" Yes sir, I am sure I do." 

" Are you glad to be in God's hands, and in His 
world, and let Him do with you as He will ? You 
know He will, but are you glad of it ?" 

" Yes, I am. I would not desire to be anywhere 
else than in His hands. It is pleasant to me to 
think that He reigns over me and over all." 

" Then are you not reconciled, to God?" 

" I don't know. If I was really reconciled to 
Him, I have always thought I should have more 
assurance of His favor. I am afraid to think I am 
reconciled." 

" Do you love God's people ?" 

" Yes sir ; their society has always been more 
pleasant to me than any other. I enjoy it." 

" Don't you think that these feelings, which you 
have now expressed, are evidences of true religion?" 

" I should think so, perhaps, if I had not always 
had them. But I have never been sensible of any 
particular change. I have always felt so since I was 
a little child, as long as I can remember." 

I was utterly amazed ! Here I had been for years 
12 



266 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERTS ON. 

aiming to make conviction of sin more deep, instead 
of binding up the broken heart ! I had been aim- 
ing to lead a sinner to Christ, instead of showing 
her that she was not a stranger, and an outcast ! I 
I was ashamed of myself! I had often talked to 
this precious woman as if she were an alien from 
God, and an enemy ; and now it appeared as if all 
the while she had been one of His most affectionate 
children, her very anguish consisting in this, — that 
she loved Him no more, and could not get assurance 
of His love towards her. It was true she had never 
told me these things before ; but that did not satisfy 
me. I ought to have learnt them before. I went 
out and wept bitterly ! I felt as if I had been pour- 
ing anguish into the crushed heart of the publicar, 
as he cried, ' God be merciful to me a sinner !' 

On my w r ay home, I thought of wdiat my old friend 
that whistled had said to me years before, and I was 
convinced that I had practically run into the error, 
against which his wisdom aimed to guard me. Over 
the recollection of the tears of anguish which I had 
so often caused this noble woman, in secret I poured 
out my own ! 

Afterwards I aimed repeatedly to show her what 
were and what were not evidences of saving faith ; 
and she said to me more than once,- — 

" I should think myself a Christian if it were not 
for one thing ; but I have had these feelings ever 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 267 

since I can remember : I have never been sensible 
of any such change as other people experience, and 
as the gospel mentions. I could not tell the time 
when I became a Christian, and am afraid to think 
I am a child of God." 

So she felt ; and she lived after this for months, 
downcast and burdened, with only an occasional 
gleam of sunshine to gladden her heart. I deem 
it not improbable that that secret grief which 
preyed upon her heart, and cast such a shade of 
melancholy over all her appearance, may have 
damped her religious joy and hope all along. I 
may not here record what it was. Gradually I dis- 
covered it, and it was cause enough, I am sure, to 
excuse all the melancholy which so long held pos- 
session of one of the noblest hearts that ever bled. 

This woman had a pious mother. That mother 
taught her from her infancy, in a most faithful and 
affectionate manner; and it is probable that the 
gentle influences of the Holy Spirit renewed her 
heart in her early life, so that she " could not 
remember the time when she did not love God." 

She finally came to a calm, but feeble and timor- 
ous hope that she was indeed a Christian. She 
hoped hesitatingly and humbly ; as she said to me, 
" it is almost hope against hope." She removed to 
another part of the country, and there she and her 
daughter came, (on the same Sabbath, I believe,) for 



268 UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 

the first time to the communion table of their Lord. 
I have sometimes seen them since ; they have some- 
times done me the favor to write to me ; they are 
still my precious friends ; and I have reason to hope 
they are both on their way to heaven. When she 
arrives there, she may know what she will never 
know here, — the time of her conversion. 

We are apt to have too limited views of God. 
We think we understand Him, but He constantly 
goes beyond us, and shames us. It is well for us to 
have wisdom enough to be ashamed. The man or 
minister, who thinks he can trace all the operations 
of God's Spirit upon the souls of men, or thinks that 
God's Spirit will be confined to the ways of his wis- 
dom or modes of his imagining, knows very little 
of God. God sanctifies souls through the truth. 
That is about all that we know. If we think we 
have got beyond this in knowledge, and so under- 
stand the " different operations " of the Holy Spirit, 
that all true conversions will come within the scope 
of our favorite patterns, we have much yet to learn. 
That is a very common error with our Revivalists. 

Many persons who have had a religious educa- 
tion, who have never thrown off the restraints of 
religious influence, and with whom the power of 
conscience and just principle has been felt, become 
truly the children of God, without any such sudden 



UNCONSCIOUS CONVERSION. 269 

and sensible change in their feelings, as we often 
behold in others. I have learnt not to distrust the 
religion of such persons. They wear well. Feeling 
is not the only evidence of religion. Just principles, 
an effective conscience, and proper habits of life, are 
evidences of it also. 

The Eev. Dr. A , (now gone to his rest and 

reward,) once the distinguished and very useful 
pastor of a large church in the State of New York, 
said to me, more than twenty years since,- — " After 
I was settled over my church, for about fifteen 
years we used to receive into the church on their 
profession of faith, from twelve to twenty persons 
every year. But we had no revival. Then, there 
was a great revival among us, and we received in 
six months more than all we had received before in 
three years. After that we had no more gradual 
admissions, or only a very few, for six or seven 
years. And so it has been ever since for a period 
of twenty years. Every few years we have a re- 
vival, and after it a dearth, and then another re- 
vival. And now, if anybody should ask me, which 
system I prefer, the revival system or the old one, 
I should have no hesitation in saying the old one. 
I know it is not for me to choose. God is a Sover- 
eign, and sends his Spirit as he chooses ; but I am 
sure our prosperity, on the whole, was greater, and 
our converts wore better, under the old system." 



Ceashuj to f ra^. 

At the earnest solicitation of a friend, very dear 
to me, who liad herself just come to a happy tran- 
quillity of mind, I sought an interview with her 
sister — -an accomplished young woman, of about 
seventeen years of age. I found that the attention 
of my new acquaintance had been directed to re- 
ligion some few months previous to this ; but though 
her mind was still very tenderly affected, yet she 
had ceased to pray. . She appeared very much dis- 
couraged and very miserable. 

" I have given up trying to seek God," says she, 
" it does no good. I would give anything to be a 
Christian, but I never shall be !" 

"You ought not to say that, my child," said I, 
"You do not know that. I know you maybe a 
Christian, if you will ; for God has never said, seek 
ye my face in vain." 

11 Well, sir, it seems to me that I can never be a 
Christian ; I have that feeling ; it comes over me 
every time I think about religion." 



CEASING TO PRAY. 271 

" And is that the reason why you have ceased to 
pray?" 

" Yes, sir; my prayers will do me no good!" 

" How do 3-011 know they will do you no good ?" 

" Because I don't pray with a right heart." 

" And do you expect to get a right heart without 

prayer?" 

" I don't expect to get a right heart at all, sir." 
" Well, if you could get a right heart, would you 

get it without prayer ?" 

" I suppose not. But all my praying is only an 

abomination in the sight of God !" 

M Does not God command you to pray, to seek 

Him by prayer; to seek His aid and favor?" 
i; Yes, sir ; I know He does." 
iL Then is it not a greater abomination in His sight 

o o 

when you neglect prayer, than when you pray as 
well as you can ?" 

"Perhaps it maybe," said she, sadly, "I don't 
know ; but if I regard iniquity in my heart, the 
Lord will not hear me." 

" Then you had better not regard iniquity in your 
heart. You ought to give God your heart ; you 
ought to repent ; you ought to ' cease to do evil, 1 
and ( learn to do well.' 

I then took up her Bible which was lying upon 
the table, and read to her, and explained the first 
five verses in the second chapter of Proverbs : the 



272 CEASING TO PRAY. 

first ten verses in the fifty-fifth, of Isaiah : and the 
twelfth and thirteenth verses in the twenty-ninth of 
Jeremiah. Then I appealed to her, — 

"Is it not plain that God requires you to pray? 
and is it not just as plain that He connects encour- 
agements and promises with that requirement?" 

" Yes sir, I suppose it is." 

" Then, will you obey Him ?" 

"I would, sir," said she, " if I had any heart to 
pray," and burst into tears. 

" Do you want to have a heart to pray?" 

" Oh, sir, I do wish I had one !" 

" Then, cannot you ask God to give you such a 
heart ? Cannot you go to Christ, and give up your 
heart to Him, and beg Him to accept you, since He 
loves to save sinners ; and trust Him to put a right 
spirit within you, as He has promised to do ?" 

In this way I reasoned with her out of the Scrip- 
tures for a long time. It appeared to me that she 
was deeply sensible of her sins. She was evidently 
very miserable. She longed to be a Christian. But 
she was prevented from every attempt to seek the 
Lord, by the discouraging idea that her prayers 
would be useless, and were an offense to God. I 
had no expectation that she would gain any blessing 
without prayer, and therefore I requested her to 
listen to me, as calmly as she could, (for she had 
become much agitated,) while I should mention to 



CEASING TO PRAY. 2*73 

her some things wliich I wanted her to remember. 
She tried to repress her emotions ; and drying her 
tears, lifted her face from her handkerchief, — 

11 I will hear you, sir, very willingly ; but you 
don't know what a wicked heart I have." 
I proceeded, — 

" The First thing I would have you remember is 
this : that y our God commands you to pray. That is 
your duty. Nothing can excuse you from it. 
Wicked heart as you may have, God commands 
3 r ou to pray. 

" The Second thing is, that God connects His prom- 
ises with these commands. You have no right to sepa- 
rate them. The promise and the command stand 
together. 

" The Third thing is, that when you do thus sepa- 
rate them (saying the promises are not for such 
wicked hearts as yours), and therefore refuse to pray, 
you are not taking Ood\s way, but your own. You 
are teaching Him, instead of suffering Him to teach 
you. Your duty is to take His way. His thoughts 
are not your thoughts. 

" The Fourth thing, therefore, is, you are never to 
despair. Despair never yet made a human being 
any better ; it has made many a devil worse. Hope 
in God, by believing what He says. You need not 
have any hope in yourself; but } r ou may have hope 
in God, and you may pray in hope. Never despair. 

12* 



2*74 CEASING TO PRAY. 

11 The Fifth thing is, that your wicked heart, in- 
stead of being a reason why you should not pray, is 
the very reason why you should pray most earnestly. 
It is the strongest of all reasons. Pray just because 
you have a wicked heart. Such a heart needs God's 
help. 

" The Sixth thing is, that a great many persons 
have thought, and felt, and talked about prayer just 
as you do ; and afterwards have found out that they 
were mistaken, have prayed, and have become true 
and happy Christians. I could name to you, this 
moment, at least a dozen, whom I have known and 
have talked to, just as I do now to you. They have 
been persuaded to pray, and they are now happy in 
hope. If you will go with me, I will introduce you 
to some of them, and they will tell you their own 
story. Remember this : others just like you have 
found out their error. You may find out yours. 

" The Seventh thing is, that your impression about 
prayer is a temptation of the Devil, it is a falsehood, a 
deception, a lie designed to keep you in sin and 
misery. Isoi that you think your heart worse than 
it is ; but that you do not think God so gracious and 
merciful as He is, to hear the prayers of even such 
a heart. Resist the Devil and he will flee from you. 

"The Eighth thing is, that this idea of yours 
(about not praying with such a heart), is just an idea 
of self righteousness. You are 'going about to estab- 



CEASING TO PRAY. 275 

lish a righteousness of your own, and have not 
submitted yourself to the righteousness of God. 
Christ is the end of the Law for righteousness/ 
You wish to pray with such a good heart, that God 
will hear you on that account. This is pride, wicked, 
foolish pride, a spirit of self- righteousness, self-justi- 
fication, and self-reliance. It is this which keeps 
you from prayer. 

" Do you understand me ?" 

" Yes sir, I think I do" 

" And are not all these things true?" 

" I don't know but they are, sir." 

tl Then will you pray ? Will you begin now, to- 
day?" 

"Yes sir, JtriS-try." 

For a time she faithfully kept her promise. Seve- 
ral times after this I conversed with her, and though 
she did not appear to me to become more unhappy, 
yet she did appear to me to become more truly con- 
victed. Her conscience seemed to be more awakened. 
Her mind seemed to be more influenced by the 
principles of truth, and I fondly expected that she 
would soon find ' peace in believing. 7 But she did 
not. She yielded to the old temptation. She neg- 
lected prayer ; and, in a fevv r weeks, divine truths 
ceased to affect her ! 

I strove to bring her back to her closet duty, but in 
vain ! Years have passed, she is st'll without hope ! 



Coniuurhtg to $ rail. 

Hayixg noticed from the pulpit, for several Sab- 
baths, the very fixed attention of a young friend to 
all that I uttered in my sermons ; I called upon her 
at her residence. She had been a gay girl ; and 
her social disposition, the pleasantness of her man- 
ners, her taste, and the almost unequalled kindness 
of her heart, while they made her a favorite every- 
where, exposed her, as I thought, to be drawn into 
temptations to volatility and the vanities of the 
world. As I spoke to her of religion, her eyes 
filled with tears, and she frankly told me, that, for 
several weeks, she had been thinking very much 
upon that subject, and had been "very unhappy" 
in finding herself "so far from God, — -just as you 
described in your sermon," said she " ' without God 
and without hope? That sermon told me my heart, 
and I have had no peace since. I am astonished at 
my sinfulness, and I am more astonished at my 
stupidity and hardness of heart." I conversed with 
her, and counselled her, as well as I knew how, and 
we kneeled together in prayer. 



CONTINUING TO PRAY. 277 

After this I saw her three or four times, within 
the space of a fortnight. She studied the way of 
salvation most assiduously, and, as I thought, with 
a most docile disposition ; and she prayed for par- 
don, and for the aid of the Holy Spirit, with most 
intense earnestness. " I do want to love my heav- 
enly Father," said she; "I do pray for the Holy 
Spirit to show my poor heart the way to the 
Saviour. 7 ' 

Calling upon her a few days after, I found that 
her appearance was very much altered. She was 
less frank than I had ever found her before ; and 
though not less solemn perhaps, it was a different 
sort of solemnity. She appeared to be more down- 
cast than ever, though not so much agitated, not 
affected to tears, but having now the appearance of 
fixed, pensive thought. The impression came over 
my mind, that she had been led to yield up the 
world, and that the peculiarity which I noticed in 
her manner and conversation, was the mute humil- 
ity of a broken-hearted penitent, now musing over 
the world she had sacrificed, more than rejoicing 
over the Christ she had found. But after a little 
farther interrogation, I found it was not that : she 
was as far from peace as ever. 

But I could not understand her. Her heart did 
not seem to me as formerly. She had no tears to 
shed now ; her manner was cold, and unlike her- 



278 CONTINUING TO PRAY. 

self; her words were measured and few; her misery, 
which seemed deeper than before, had put on an 
aspect almost of sullenness. 

It was somewhat difficult for me to ascertain her 
state of mind ; but after a few minutes, yielding to 
my urgency to tell me her feelings as a friend, she 
said to me, witn a fixed look of despair, — 

"I am entirely discouraged ! I never shall be a 
Christian ! My heart is so wicked, that it is wrong 
for me to pray at all, and for the last three days I 
have not tried ! I have given up all hope of ever 
being saved !" She thanked me for my kindness 
and good intentions : but gave me to understand, 
that she did not wish to have the subject of religion 
urged upon her attention any more. 

I encouraged her to persevere in her attempts to 
gain salvation. Especially I enjoined upon her the 
duty of prayer, and said to her almost -precisely die 
same things which I had said before to another 
friend, and which are recorded in the sketch pre- 
ceding this, as eight things to be remembered. 

As I was speaking to her in the way of encour- 
agement, her look appeared to alter, her bosom 
heaved, she burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. 
Referring to this some weeks afterwards, she said to 
me, "When you encouraged me so kindly, that 
day, my whole heart melted; I would have done 
anything you told me : T thought, if God is so kind, 



C O X T I X U I X G T I J R A Y. 2 79 

I must love Him, I ivill love Him." She promised 
to resume prayer again. She kept her promise. 
And about a week after that, light broke in upon 
her darkness; she was one of the most bright and 
joj^ous creatures, and, I am sure, one of the most 
lovely ones, that ever consecrated to God the dew 
of her youth. She has continued to be so. Her 
da}^s are all sunshine. Her heart is all happiness, 
and humility, and love. "My dear pastor," said 
she to me, (when I asked what particular truth or 
means it was that led her to Christ,) " I never should 
have found my Saviour, if you had not encouraged 
me so kindlv, and led me back to prayer. Prayer 
is everything, for God answers it." 

These young persons, (mentioned in this, and in 
the preceding sketch,) were very much alike in 
conviction, in despondency, in temptation — they 
had the same means, the same ministry — the same 
truths were urged upon them in the same manner. 
Surely God is the hearer of prayer. If that other 
young woman could have been "led back to prayer," 
as this happy one expressed it ; wdio can doubt that 
she would have been happy, too, in ' the kindness 
of her youth, and the love of her espousals.' If 
this page ever meets her eye may it lead her back 
to prayer." 



fSttinan ^Hlitji. 

A member of my church called upon me, with 
manifest solicitude, in respect to a friend of his, 
whom he desired me to visit : a young woman, who 
was a stranger to me. She was a member of the 
church, (but not of mine,) and though she was a 
resident in the place where I lived, she did not at- 
tend upon my ministry. I had reason to believe 
that she had tried it, but soon left the congregation 
because she disliked the preaching. She attended 
worship with another congregation, whose minister, 
as I suppose, preached many doctrines, not only dif- 
ferent from those which I preached, but contrary to 
them. And I had little doubt that he would talk 
to inquiring sinners very differently from myself. 

To visit this young woman under such circum- 
stances was not pleasant to me. I should have to 
encounter her prejudices, and very likely should 
be obliged to contradict many things which had 
been taught to her ; and, in such a case, it seemed 
to me almost beyond hope, that I should be the in- 
strument of any good. However, she had consented 



HUMAN ABILITY. 281 

to meet me, and it would be ungracious, if not un* 
christian, for me to refuse. I understood that a. deep 
and painful anxiety, respecting her salvation, had 
troubled her for many months ; and when her friend 
desired her to converse with me, she had consented 
reluctantly, I had no doubt. She told him she was 
" willing to converse with anybody, 1 '' an expression 
indicative, as I thought, of no great confidence in 
myself, but yet it manifested an anxiety of mind. 

I immediately called upon her. She was an in- 
telligent young woman ; her manners were refined, 
her education was excellent, and her well-trained 
mind was evidently accustomed to deep and exten- 
sive study. I am confident she has few equals in 
intellectual excellence. 

She was in deep trouble. She had been a pro- 
fessor of religion for more than ten years, having 
united with the church in a distant part of the 
country, but for several years past she had been 
convinced that she was an unconverted sinner still. 

Besides possessing a mind of great strength, she 
appeared to me to have much firmness of character, 
great power of discrimination, much pride of reason, 
and an independence which bordered hard upon 
obstinacy. But I thought she was of an amiable 
disposition. Her frankness pleased me, and I dis- 
covered in her such a tenderness and depth of sen- 
sibility as are not common. On the whole, I was 



282 HUMAN ABILITY. 

much pleased with, her — I esteemed her ; but I feared 
that her firmness and her pride of reason would n,ot 
easily yield to Christ, as prophet, priest and king. 
She had much philosophy and no faith. 

" For years," (she said to me,) " I have been fully 
convinced that there is something in religion which 
I know nothing about, and know not where to find 
it." And as I endeavored to point out to her, as 
clearly and simply as I could, the way of salvation, 
explaining to her the great truths of Christianity ; I 
soon found that her opinions came into conflict with 
the truths which I presented to her, and she seemed 
wedded to her opinions with an unequalled fondness, 
firmness and confidence. 

She evidently disliked, and very greatly disliked, 
the whole system of truth which I urged upon her 
attention and her acceptance ; but those truths to 
which she seemed most opposed, and which she was 
ready to call in question, combat, or explain away, 
were such as have respect to human depravitj?-, the 
dependence of a sinner on the special influences of 
the Holy Spirit, and justification by faith in Jesus 
Christ, as making atonement for our sins, delivering 
us from the curse of the law, and securing to us the 
full favor of God. But she did not appear to be so 
much opposed to the atonement as to the Divine 
sovereignty and a sinner's dependence. She fully 
believed in " human ahiiity" She had not a doubt 



HUMAN ABILITY. 283 

that a singer possesses full power to come to Christ, 
to repent and turn to God. The idea that a sinner 
can do nothing of himself, which, will have any 
saving efficacy, she could not endure. The doctrine 
of helpless dependence was unutterably odious to 
her. She said to me, as I was urging upon her 
heart some of the practical truths of God, " I be- 
lieve as Mr. F believes." We had some little 

argumentation upon the points whereon we differed, 
but I soon perceived she was so much attached to 
her false system, had defended it so long, and had 
so much pride and false philosophy embarked for 
its support, that no direct demonstrations addressed 
to the intellect would probably avail to batter it 
down. 

But her system had not saved her. That was her 
w r eak point. It had not led her to peace. It had 
not satisfied her heart,' — a heart still wanting some- 
thing, and roaming, like Noah's dove on w r eary 
wing, over a world of waters, — no rock to rest 
upon. So I waived all disputation, avoided theo- 
logical points, (as much as I could, and still utter the 
truths appropriate to her,) and left her own wanting 
heart to convince her of the truth, by the pains of 
its own experience. I kindly assured her that there 
was salvation for her, a peace, and a repose, to 
which she was now a stranger; and encouraged her 
to seek the Lord with all her heart, under the direc- 



284 HUMAN ABILITY. 

tion of the Bible, and praying for the help of the 
Holy Spirit ; for 1 was fully convinced that nothing 
but the experience of her own soul would correct the 
errors of her understanding, and lead her to believe 
the truths of God. If her " ability" was sufficient 
to repent without the aids of the Holy Spirit, I 
thought she had better try. 

After several interviews with her, I was com- 
pelled to leave home, and I saw her no more for 
nearly a month. As I took my leave of her, I had 
little hope in her case. Evidently she was preju- 
diced against me, against my principles, and against 
all my preaching. Personally, therefore, it seemed 
impossible for me to have any influence over her. 
Her mind was filled with a system, in all its spirit, 
and all its influences upon personal experience in 
religion, entirely contrary to my religious views. 
She constantly heard preaching, which I thought, 
by her account of it, to be directly contrary to the 
truth which I was most desirous to impress upon 
her heart, I could not talk to her of seeking God, 
or explain to her the way of salvation, without 
coming into conflict with some of her darling opin- 
ions. And hence I could not expect that all I had 
said to her would be of much avail. Much as I 
esteemed her, I was half sorry that I had ever seen 
her at all. 

On my return home about a month afterwards, I 



HUMAN ABILITY, 285 

called upon her, as she had politely requested. I 
found her in a very different state of mind. She 
was most solemn, but full of peace. Her mind was 
all light, her heart all joj". As she talked to me, 
every one of her thoughts was clear as a sunbeam. 
She related to me her religious exercises with so 
much precision, clearness, and graphic power of 
description, and in such sweet humility and loveli- 
ness of spirit, that I was utterly astonished: I 
thought I had never heard anything equal to it. 
On that account I asked of her the favor to write 
down the account she had given me, — her own re- 
ligious history. She yielded to my solicitation, and 
a few days afterwards I received from her the fol- 
lowing account, which I think one of the most in- 
structive and graphic descriptions I have ever seen. 

I am sure the reader will join me in thanking her for 
allowing it to take a place in this volume, 

II Dr. Spencer, 

"Dear Sir- — In compliance with your request, I 
transmit to you the following sketch of my religious 
history : 

11 Almost eleven years have elapsed since I made 
a profession of religion. I thought then that I was 
a Christian ; but I made a mistake. I found out my 
mistake gradually. One thing was enough to teach it 
to m<? As weeks and months passed on, I found my 



286 HUMAN ABILITY. 

path, instead of being like that of the just, i shining 
more and more unto the perfect day,' only grew 
darker and darker ; so that I finally feared its end 
must be in utter darkness. 

" The time, when I first thought I had begun the 
Christian course, was during a Revival The teach- 
ing I then continually heard, was, ' Giye your- 
selves to God, and go right about serying Him, 7 as 
if doing that would of itself make one a Christian. I 
finally concluded that must be all ; the importunities 
of friends were pressing me, and I at last expressed 
my determination and readiness to begin then the 
service of God, believing, as I was told, that we must 
not wait for light, Ave should find it in the discharge 
of duty. And herein I see now how the mistake of 
my life was made ; my religion was one of works 
and not of faith. I knew nothing about faith. 

" As time passed on, I became fully convinced, 
that there was no Christian principle at work in 
my heart. What then could I do ? I always had 
a great repugnance to saying anything about my 
personal feelings ; and if I should say I was not a 
Christian, and ask advice, I should only be told what 
I already knew, and what I heard preached every 
Sabbath clay. I believed I might make my profess- 
ed religion a religion of the heart, and there was no 
need of any publicity about it : as I was already a 
professor, why, it would make no great change in 



H U M A N ABILI T Y . 287 

me. And I have tried to do so again and again, 
and wondered as often, why it was, that religion was 
a thing so utterly unattainable for me. This always 
made me miserable, except when I forgot it. And 
though I have sometimes almost forgotten it for 
weeks and months, still it has ever been a shadow 
in my heart, a secret blight upon everything. 

" A few years since I spent a season in the State 
of Michigan, where I was under the influence and 
preaching of the ' Oberlin Doctrines.' My prejudices 
were against them, supposing some mysterious evil, 
I scarcely knew what, was lurking among them. 
But when I began to understand those views on de- 
pravity, ability, imputation, the atonement, &c, they 
pleased me exceedingly. They addressed them- 
selves to my reason as I thought, and commended 
themselves to my heart. I found something tangible 
to work upon ; and ever since, religion, as a specu- 
lative matter, has been to me the most interesting 

of all things. I adopted the views of Mr. F , 

with my whole heart and soul ; have ever since been 
openly committed to that faith, and everywhere its 
avowed and ready advocate. 

" For some two years past I have taken very spe- 
cial interest in Theological discussions. I resided 
in W , Pennsylvania, where every one belong- 
ed to the genuine ' Old School.' The Superinten- 
dent of the Seminary, in which I was engaged as a 



288 HUMAN ABILITY. 

Teacher, was a Clergyman of the Associate Reform- 
ed Church, and a large portion of the community 
were of that demonination. I was alone in my opi- 
nions, but openly committed to them. Last sum- 
mer the Pastor of the Presbyterian church which I 
attended, formed a class among his young people to 
study the ' Confession of Faith.' I despised the 
book with my whole heart: but I joined the class 
and entered upon the w^ork, all ready for a contest. 
A great deal of interest was soon awakened, not 
jnly among the members of the class, but it extend- 
ed to others also. To me, finding myself alone as I 
was, it was a matter of most intense interest and ex- 
citement I possessed myself of all possible aids, 
studied carefully, and if I found a point that baffled 
me, I sent it to a Reverend friend of mine, who 

was a disciple of Mr. F , and in whose logic I 

had the utmost confidence. He allowed me to ask 
him as many questions as I chose, replied very fully 
to them all, and was ready to procure me all the 
means of information I desired. 

" In the midst of this I was called away, all un- 
expectedly, suddenly, -\ronderfully ; and I regretted 
it, because it put an end to my discussions, which 
were in prospect for the winter. I came here into a 
new world to me, and with work enough to occupy 
all my thoughts and all my time. Then I thought 
to myself, ' how shall I ever become a Christian 



HUMAN ABILITY. 289 

now ?' It seemed as if the most hopeful time had 
just passed, and now it was entirety out of the 
question: and I felt sad, as I thought ' perhaps 
God has given me to the world to take all my por- 
tion.' And during the first part of the winter I 
had little disposition as well as little time for serious 
thought. 

" I had great difficulty in deciding what place of 
worship to attend. There were several things which 
might have induced me to attend upon your preach- 
ing, but then I thought, i Dr. Spencer, with his blue 
Oalvinistic notions, I shall quarrel with him every 
Sabbath.' No, I would not go there. I finally 
found preaching elsew r here much more congenial to 
my taste, and took a seat in that congregation. 

M Some weeks since, I heard a sermon one Sab- 
bath morning on human responsibility, which the 
clergyman brought out by dwelling very much on 
the god-like faculties with which we are endowed, 
and the obligations we are under to develop them. 
It pleased me exceedingly, for that had always been 
one of my favorite topics, and it tended to make 
me feel self-reliant and strong. In the afternoon, it 
so happened that I attended your church, where I 
heard a sermon on humility. Such a contrast of ser- 
mons really startled me ! They actually came in 
conflict. If the thing could have been possible, I 
should readily have believed that the sermon of the 

13 



290 HUMAN ABILITY. 

iiiternoon was meant for a reply to that of the morn- 
ing. I rebelled against it with all my heart. Yet 
I could not help thinking that humility, after all, 
was most truly Christian-like, and the most eminent 
Christians had always expressed just such humiliat- 
ing views of themselves. It would be easy to be a 
Christian if I only felt so ; but I could not feel so, 
for I did not believe we were such ' weak miserable 
worms/ and altogether between the impressions of 
the two sermons I was exceedingly troubled. 

" About that time the things of religion were 
continually presenting themselves to my thoughts, 
with an unusual power. I realized as never before 
how utterly unsatisfying everything earthly proved, 
In all the past there had been nothing substantial 
or enduring ; the future could promise nothing, but 
to repeat the emptiness of the past ; and the present 
brought only the consciousness that I was sowing 
the wind and feeding on ashes ! That higher and 
worthier life I almost despaired of ever attaining, 
for what more could I do than I had done ? any 
other attempt would be but a repetition of struggles, 
that had been j^ust as determined as they were un- 
availing. Yet there remained those fearful certain- 
ties — an eternity before me, and a soul in constant 
peril! 

" Every Sabbath day these thoughts would possess 
me with such a fearful power that I would be led to 



HUMAN ABILITf. 291 

form resolutions and purposes, immediately and with. 
my wliole heart to make one more trial to find peace 
with God. Yet, in the daily duties of the week, 
such thoughts would in a measure be dissipated, and 
such purposes forgotten. On one of those solemn 
Sabbaths, a few weeks since, notice was given by 
the clergyman, that during the week evening ser- 
vices would be held in the church, and that Mr. 

F would preach. That seemed like a message 

to me. It brought me to a point where I felt com- 
pelled to consider if this was not the time for the 
final decision. I found no interest or pleasure in 
the present, that need allure away my thoughts ; I 
knew no better time could come in the future. More 
than all this, all unexpectedly my old prophet had 
appeared ! I certainly should have no disposition 
to quarrel with him : all my combativeness would 
be laid at rest. I could receive whatever he would 
say. Not an excuse was left me. God had certainly 
met me half way. I dared not defer the work. I 
felt it must be done now or never. 

14 1 resolved to attend these meetings. I went 
simply to learn what I should do. Though not 
very much prepossessed with his manner, yet in his 

matter I recognized the same Mr. F , with whom 

I was already so well acquainted through his writ- 
ings. His sermons were very much like those re- 
vival sermons of his, which were published some 



292 HUMAN ABILITF. 

j ears ago. His philosophy came out occasionally 
in an incidental way, awakening most pleasing 
responses in my heart. I heard him with the greatest 
pleasure and satisfaction. Because I dared not then 
neglect any means that seemed to lie in my way, I 
went into the inquiry meetings. It cost my pride a 
struggle, yet I dared not excuse myself. At the 
close of a conversation I had there one night with 

Mr. F , he said to me, in his peculiar manner, 

just as he was leaving me, — ' Give your heart to God 
to-night. Won't you? Give your heart to God, 
before you go to bed : promise me.' 

" { I have no faith in my promises/ said L 

"'WhaiV 

"I repeated the answer, 'I have no faith in my 
promises. 7 

u L Well, make a promise,' said he, ' and stick to it.' 

" But I did not then think how unwittingly I was 
confessing, in my answer, an inability I would have 
denied. God was then beginning to teach me the 
hardest lesson I had to learn. 

" I came home from that meeting in a perfect sea 
of troubles. I was utterly amazed to find how 
much my pride had suffered, in putting myself in 
such a new attitude. I felt mortified, humbled, 
broken, in the desperate conflict. And I thought 
within myself, ' If I am so proud as this, perhaps it 
is only the beginning of what I must come to.' 



HUMAN ABILITY. 293 

" Then, not knowing what else to do, I resolved 
to see a friend of mine, who was a professor of re- 
ligion, confess to him I was no Christian, and find 
what he would tell me. This resolve was just re- 
versing my previous determination, and cost me 
another severe struggle. But after I had seen him, 
and all the thoughts of my soul had found utterance, 
it relieved me. Yet still my heart almost fainted, 
as I found how the committal had forced me on, 
shutting up all retreat against me. 

" That night was with me a serious counting ot 
the cost. I had begun somewhat to realize how my 
pride and vail must suffer ; and I brought into full 
consideration what more I might have to do. The 
idea of telling my friends about my personal reli- 
gious feelings, was most repugnant to me : I had 
always felt it an insurmountable difficulty. I never 
could do it ; and I had often feared this would prove 
•a fatal hindrance. Every thought of this kind 
came up before me ; and then I balanced all with 
my eternal interests. The question was settled de- 
cisive^, finally. 

" My friend had expressed a very earnest wish, 
that I should see you, sir. Well, I was in such 
deep waters, I told him ' I would talk with anybody.' 
The next day you came to see me ; and after hear- 
ing my account of myself, you told me I had been 
'going about to establish a righteousness of my 



291 HUMAN ABILITY. 

own/ and therefore I had failed to find what I 
needed. You told me that my reliance always had 
been, and still was, upon my own powers and will 
to work out my salvation, without God to work in 
me. You said, I ' could not do it ; I could do no 
thing of myself.' That was the hardest of all things 
for me to receive. I could not understand it. I 
did not believe it. I told you I knew I had got 
something to do. And afterwards, when I saw 
you, that was the point you continually endeavored 
to impress upon me,* that I could do nothing of 
myself. It seemed to me the darkest mystery in 
the universe. Anything on earth I would do ; but 
here my understanding was hopelessly baffled. Yet 
when, two or three days after, you sailed for Savan- 
nah, I felt exceedingly disappointed. I heard it 
with the greatest regret, for your kindness to me, 



* This representation is true, but defective. I did not fail to 
impress upon her attention, her obligation to repent, her duty to 
be a Christian, and the truth, that she had much to do, which she 
must do freely, voluntarily. But I insisted upon it, that her help 
was in God, that she was an undone and dependent sinner, to be 
saved, if saved at all, by grace through Jesus Christ. I did " con- 
tinually endeavor to impress upon her, that she could do nothing 
of herself." It was needful to do so. That was a truth which she 
neither felt nor believed. I taught her, that she had " lost all 
ability of will to any spiritual good accompanying salvation," and 
that she needed the Holy Spirit to " enable her freely to will and 
to do that which is spiritually good." She speaks of her " favor- 
ite doctrine of ability." It was a favorite falsehood with her : and 
I M continually endeavored " to undeceive her. 



HUMAN ABILITY. 295 

and interest for me, had won my most sincere grati- 
tude and affection. 

" I had endeavored to avoid touching upon theo- 
logical points. I did not wish to think of them. I 
felt that now it was another question with me. My 
theology was safe, and safely put away. I had not 
a suspicion that it was to be interfered with. I 
knew well enough the wide difference of opinion 
betwixt you and n^self, and to enter upon any dis- 
cussion would be most unprofitable and vain. Be- 
sides, you seemed no more inclined to treat upon 
theological points than I did. So I did not happen 
to think until afterwards, the bow you had drawn 
at a venture had sent its shaft with a tremendous 
thrust right upon my favorite doctrine of ability. 
It struck the doctrine as much as it struck me. In- 
deed it could not hit me without hitting the doctrine, 
for the doctrine was directly betwixt me and the 
arrow of truth. But you were gone, and I was left 
to think of it. 

"Xothing yet seemed bringing me nearer to the 
light. I became almost discouraged. Human helps 
failed me, and I found that I failed myself. It was 
so. My utmost efforts of will were wholly ineffec- 
tual. I did thoroughly prove them. Anything on 
earth I was willing to do. As I had told you, ' I 
would die ten thousand deaths.' And my own 
multiplied endeavors, — my own experiences, did 



296 HUMAN ABILITY. 

finally convince me that it was not of myself to turn 
to God. And then, with some sense that I was lost 
forever unless He did help me, I tried to look to 
Him for help. 

" But then came my difficulty, — I could not fi/iA 
Him ! The heavens were dark, my heart was dark, 
and the only God I could think of was a cold ab- 
straction of my own forming ! For a long time I 
struggled with that difficulty, — I could not find Him. 
Finally, the thought flashed upon me, ' there is a 
God.' (And then I recognized a familiar principle, 
when knowing the solution of a question does exist, 
we are patient to follow through all dark ways to 
find it.) ' It is true, though I have not yet found 
Him, there is a God, — God is. 7 It was like finding 
one spot on which I could rest. Wherever He was, 
He was the God I wanted. The idea of His power 
then possessed me. That was my first realization of 
any attribute of God. And it seems to me to show 
the wisdom of divine teaching, that when I had 
been full of miserable self-reliances, and vainly seek- 
ing in myself the strength to turn to God, the first 
attribute of His that I realized was His power. It 
came upon me with such force and vividness, that 
it seemed as if I had never before really believed 
there was a God. And then I remembered that He 
is ' mighty to save.' That idea came so upon me, 
that H seemed to fill my whole being. Such a great 



HUMAN ABILITY. 2J7 

and glorious Saviour then He was, that human 
pride might well be set aside for most humble thank- 
fulness. Such an one I could worship forever. So 
different He seemed from what had been my own 
miserable conceptions of a Saviour, that I would 
find myself questioning if there could be such a 
Saviour. But yet it was most true, — I felt it to be 
true, and wanted to tell it to everybody in the 
house ; besides, the whole Bible told of One just so 
' mighty to save.' 

" And then came new views, — clearer views of 
the atonement. I saw and felt how God himself 
had paid the ransom for a whole race ruined ; He 
had himself borne the penalty; on Him was laid 
the iniquity of us all ; it was all done, so that now 
there was nothing to be done, only to trust in Him 
to save us. It seemed such an infinite atonement, 
— so full, and it was so free ; so that every one that 
thirsteth, may come. — whosoever will, may take 
freely. It was infinite love that, when extended to 
those so lost and guilty, became infinite mercy. 
There every sin might be covered and lost. 

11 That night I read 4 my goodness, my fortress,' 

&c., and the thought struck me, is it so, then, that 

even a Christian has not his own goodness ? — is his 

goodness Christ ? Yes, it was so. In Him was all 

fulness, and such a fulness, then, there must be ; 

whatever the sinner needed, whatever the sinner 

13* 



298 HUMAN ABILITY. 

had not, was all found in Him. And it was such a 
new idea that the principle of holiness was not, after 
all, to be found in our own heart, but it was all in 
Christ,- — Christ was the ' end of the law for right- 
eousness.' He was our goodness, our righteousness, 
our sanctification, our redemption, — He alone our 
salvation. And when that idea fully broke upon 
me, I was lost in it. The forms, in which I had 
always brought God to my mind, had dropped 
away, and a new God, — a Saviour, seemed to have 
appeared out of heaven, and filled every place 
around me. It was an uncreated glory and purity 
all about me, and such a purity, and such a glory, — 
my only expression for it was, L such a glorious 
Saviour J The intensity and vividness of that feel- 
ing and conception, which was the most glorious of 
anything that ever entered my soul, passed away 
after a time, but I was still happy in thinking there 
was just such a Saviour, until I attempted to ex- 
press something of my idea to my friend who first 
directed me to you, and then it seemed to amount 
to nothing more than what I had known before, — 
what everybody knew, that there was a God and a 
Saviour. 

" But it was a day or two after that before I hap- 
pened to think, that here was another of my favor- 
ite doctrines torn up, root and branch,- — that against 
imputation. But so it was; I felt it was gone, t 



HUMAN ABILITY. 299 

knew in my very heart that Christ's righteousness 
was the only ground of acceptance. That express- 
ion, ' making mention of his righteousness/ struck 
me with peculiar force. And it came to me again 
and again, so full of meaning ! But I did not feel 
a regret that my own former speculations were 
swept away, for the plan, as I now saw it, seemed 
so infinitely more glorious, that I could only rejoice 
in it. Not only had He paid our debt, but He 
clothed us also in His own robe of righteousness, 
that we need not depend on ourselves, or look for 
righteousness in ourselves, but find all in Christ. 
That was truly a glorious redemption. 

"The vividness of these conceptions gradually 
dimmed, but still the truth remained. I believed every- 
thing that I had now learned, for it ivas my heart's 
experience. And because I found these impressions 
lost their vividness, and I did not feel them moving 
me, but felt how great a work was to be done in my 
heart : I could not, dared not think my heart was 
really changed ; and I was continually fearful of 
falling again upon a false hope. 

" About that time, in a prayer-meeting, I heard 
the minister to whose congregation I belonged, make 
the remark, as he was giving some directions to in- 
quirers ~ now we are not going to pray God to 
enable you to consecrate yourselves to Him ; there is 
not a soul here but is able to do that. 1 He said it 



300 HUMAN ABILI T Y . 

was l just as easy, as giving away a book,' he held 
in his hand, ' all a^ act of his will.' That startled 
me. I had just learned better ! I had found in my 
own soul, that ' it is not of him that willeth, nor of 
him that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy.' 
I did believe he was ' the Author and Finisher of 
our faith,' — even the Author. This boasted power 
of the human will, I found to be the very rock on 
which I had split before ; so that that minister's teach- 
ing would not do for me. He had invited any who 
wished to «ee him, to meet him the next evening, 
and I haa purposed to go ; but now I would not 
venture. 

" In the preaching of Mr. F hitherto, his pe- 
culiar doctrines had only come out incidentally. 
But a few nights after this I heard a sermon from 
him, almost entirely devoted to his peculiar views. 
He went on to speak of the fall, and that ' when man 
had changed his heart one way, he could as well do 
it the other,' — to speak also of a?/ c imputed right- 
eousness,' which he seemed to tbhik was 'the same 
as an imputed heaven' would be, — to speak of the 
power of example being the strongest moral force 
that could be brought to bear upon the mind, and 
this we had in Christ. He said that motives pre- 
sented would work out their effect. These were the 
same things that I continually d *i elt upon last sum- 
mer, They now swept over n 2 like a torrent, not 



HUMAN ABILITY. 301 

zmvinci?igly however, for my ovm heart disproved 
them — but with a strange power. It was like reviv- 
ing what I had just buried. Those old speculations 
(which my own experience had proved to be false), 
all woke up fresh, and my mind was filled with 
them. It was true that sermon touched a chord 
that was dear to me, and I was compelled to have 
all the struggle over again. Clouds and darkness 
shut down over me, and I could not see my way 

out ! But I did not go to hear Mr. F any 

more. 

"By this time I began to look at my Theology 
5n earnest, to see if anything therein was keeping me 
back from the light. And I finally acknowledged, that 
whatever the Bible said, whatever God taught, how- 
ever it might come into conflict with my prejudice, 
I must receive it. I must take it, and learn it, and be- 
lieve it as a little child, my own prejudice and reason 
out of the question. If Adam's sin had anything to do 
with us, why I must submit. And more than all 
else, if God did even ordain to leave some to ever- 
lasting punishment, I had nothing to say, — it was 
his right. That ninth chapter of the Eomans, which 
I had quarrelled with more than any other chapter in 
the Bible, and had been determined not to receive, un- 
less it could all be explained away ; why, if God had 
really said so, I must take it, I must take it just as 
it reads, for, L who art thou that repliest against God ?' 



302 HUMAN ABILITY. 

And I could see now, that if it were so, it did more 
folly manifest the riches of his glory on the ' vessels 
of mercy.' His plans and purposes were none of 
my business. Grod would reign ; and all I had to 
do was to be willing to be saved in the only way 
He had provided. 

" But even after all this, I found myself in trouble 
For some days I seemed to have come to a stopping 
place. I could not go back. I knew not how to 
go forward. All was dark, and God was far away. 
I knew not what hindered me, or why I was in 
darkness. I could think of nothing which I was 
not willing to give up, — nothing that I was not will- 
ing Grod should do with me ; and yet it seemed as 
if something must be wanting. Unquestionably the 
fault was in me ; my deceitful heart had hidden 
away a part of the price, and I could not find it. 

" I was remarking this difficulty to my friend, 
when he suggested that I seemed to be looking to 
my past experiences, fearful of being again deceived, 
and added, that never before in my life had I had 
such a course of thought. That remark struck me, 
and when I was alone that evening it induced a long 
train of reflections. I had never had such a course 
of thought before. That was most true. Never, in 
my life, not at all before, when I expressed the hope 
that I was a Christian, had I experienced anything 
like this. Never before had eternal tilings come to 



HUMAN ABILITF. 803 

me with such reality and power, concentrating my 
whole soul upon one intense, absorbing thought. 
And now I bethought myself of all the various 
processes through which my mind within a few 
days had past. My very power of thinking sur- 
prised me. I thought, that while ever before I had 
found it difficult to fix my mind for any length of 
time upon my own eternal interests, now my soul's 
salvation had been the one thing continually before 
me. Engaged in my usual occupations, there was a 
constant under-current of thought, and when at 
leisure, my mind was filled with one intense, absorb- 
ing interest. Here certainly was one thing unlike 
what I had ever known before. In this respect I 
found myself a new creature. I reflected, also, that 
I had always revolted from telling my friends that 
I was not a Christian, or from expressing to them 
any religious concern, but now it was. very different 
with me. I had actually surprised myself several 
times in thinking, with a sort of pleasure, how I would 
tell all my friends what wonderful things God had 
.done for me. And it occurred to me now, how un- 
like me that was — how totally different from what I 
had always felt before. I was astonished, and said 
to myself, ' what has wrought this change V 

" Again, I reflected that night, I had been fully 
grounded and settled in a system of theology ; it 
had been a matter of exceeding interest to me. I 



304 HUMAN ABILITY. 

had believed it as fully and firmly as reason fully 
persuaded can believe. Neither had it been a mere 
prejudice of education. The prejudices of education 
and the influences under which I have always been, 
(except at one time for a few months,) would all 
have led me far enough the other way ; but it was 
a theological belief, brought about by the power of 
my own reason. I honestly believed, when I rested 
on that system, and I believe now, that no force of 
argument in the world could have changed me. If 
I had not succeeded in sustaining my system I should 
have felt that the truth of it remained untouched, — 
I had only failed in the way of showing it. I had 
repeatedly heard all the strongest arguments that 
could be adduced against me, and they never moved 
me. The first sermon I heard after I came to this 
place was a sermon from Dr. Skinner, on " De- 
pravity." It was a master-piece. As an effort of 
intellect, and for its logic, I admired it with, all my 
heart. But I said, 'a man equally logical could 
answer him on the other side, and do even better 
thereJ Besides, my pride was concerned ; for I had 
been so openly and everywhere committed to my 
faith, I had contended for it so often and with so 
many-, that this alone might make it a hard matter 
for me to retract ; almost impossible. And besides 
all this, when I began to think about being a Chris- 
tian now, theology had been left out of my thoughts. 



HUMAN ABILITY. 305 

1 felt it was another thing that interested me. I did 
not wish to bring it up, and it never entered into 
my mind that it would be meddled with, much less 
that I should renounce one point. The idea of doing 
so I knew would have astonished me. Indeed, my 
attention had not been at all called to my theology, 
until arrested by finding it breaking away under 
me. But now, under standingly, willingly, I found I 
had given it all to the winds. Human agency seem- 
ed to have had nothing to do about it. Even you, 
sir, had to be called away, so I could not say your 
persuasion or influence had done it ; and on the 

other hand, Mr. F. w^as right here to prompt 

me ; nevertheless it was all gone. I had been almost 
entirely shut in to myself and my Bible, and there 
had been no form of argument or reason ; the change 
had come about almost unconsciously to myself, like 
the wind blowing where it listeth. And now, what 
had done this ? No person else had done it ; and I 
felt that it was not at all like me to do it ; it was the 
most unlike me of anything on earth ; and then I 
felt convinced it must be some higher power — some 
divine agency. It must he so. And you cannot 
imagine with what tremendous power that convic- 
tion forced itself upon me ; how it startled my very 
being ! unless you know that my old speculations 
had led me to the conclusion that there was no such 
thing as the special inf uence cf the Holy Spirit. I 



306 HUMAN ABILITY. 

never could understand that doctrine of special di- 
vine influence. I thought it was irreconcilable with 
free moral agency, and so I concluded it was a de- 
lusion, or a mere figure of speech. But now I found 
God himself had taught it to me. The conviction 
forced itself upon me, that here was a work of God's 
Holy Spirit. 

44 And as I tried to account for all that I had 
experienced in any other way, (aiming to guard 
against being deceived again into a false hope,) that 
passage came very strikingly to my mind, where 
the Jews, when they could not deny that devils 
were really gone out, said, ; He casteth out devils 
by Beelzebub, 7 and Christ answered, 'A house 
divided against itself cannot stand; if Satan cast 
out Satan, he is divided against himself.' That 
might be a crafty suggestion, I thought ; but it was 
not like Satan to do for me what I had experienced, 
nor was it like my own wicked heart to do it. It 
must be God, who was leading me by His Spirit, ' in 
a way that I knew not.' 

u Then, in that night of reflection, I thought also 
of other things, many lesser things, in which, as it 
seemed, in spite of myself, I had been completely 
turned around. It did seem like turning the rivers 
of water. They were flowing backward against 
their current. 

" Well then, I thought, if God's Spirit has done 



HUMAN ABILITY. 307 

bucIi wonderful things in me, (and I could not now 
doubt it,) if He lias already done things which I 
never before believed could have been done, then 
He can do all things else ; and He would, I did be- 
lieve He would, I could trust Him that He would ; 
He would work in me to will and to do what I 
could never do myself. He would continue the 
work that He had begun, and finish it in righteous- 
ness. There I could rest ; there the promises 
seemed to meet me. God's word was pledged, sure 
as His everlasting throne ; He was faithful ; the 
Word witnessed with the Spirit ; and what He had 
promised, He was also able to perform. This was 
my light, my hope, and joy. 

" And as I thus looked back, and saw how I had 
been led, I felt assured I might account, that the 
long-suffering;; of God was salvation; that He had 
purposes of mercy for me ; and now, if He had met 
me, it had truly been when I { was a great way off;' 
and He had received me in such a wonderful way, 
that He would have all the gloiy. I thought too, 
it was because He was a covenant-keeping God ; and 
as He kept His covenant with faithful Abraham, 
because ' he believed God, and it was accounted unto 
him for righteousness,' so now He does keep His 
covenant with believing parents. And such faith 
as my father and mother exercised when they gave 
me to God, would be remembered and accepted, 



308 HUM AX ABILITY. 

This seemed to me like another added to the multi- 
plied assurances of His faithfulness, that He is a God 
keeping covenant and showing mercy ; and there- 
fore, He kept me from an utter destruction, and fol- 
lowed me with purposes of mercy, to make me 
' willing in the day of His power. 7 I did feel in my 
soul, that He had done everything for me, that had 
been done ; so I could truly say, - He sent from 
above, He took me, He drew me out of many waters. 1 
Whatever I had learned, He had taught me ; and I 
did believe, that same Spirit of truth would yet 
lead me into all truth. And I rejoiced, that our 
salvation did not depend any more upon our own 
will, or our own power of enduring unto the end ; 
if it did, I felt it would be a yoke harder than that 
which the Jews were not able to bear. It was won- 
derful to think, how the whole work was of God. 
He paid the debt ; He clothed us in his own right- 
eousness ; His Spirit made us willing, and then con- 
tinues to work in us, keeping us by the power of God 
through faith unto salvation. Such contemplations 
and experiences as these assured my heart, I felt 
that God was with me. The darkness is past ; the 
true light now shineth. 

" It seems to me now, that one of my greatest 
errors has been, making my reason the test for 
everything, — bringing every principle to the court 
of reason for trial. Starting in that way, it is not 



HUMAN ABILITY. 309 

wonderful that I fell into error. I see now that 
faith is infinitely higher, — just faith, in God and His 
word. Eeason gets blinded, dizzy, lost, where faith, 
is clear, calm, steady, and in a region of light. 
Eeason cannot understand the things A f the Spirit 
of God ; not that they are contrary to it, but beyond 
it, — seen only by faith. And this is one of the 
most wonderful things that I have learned, — the 
beauty and power of faith. I never could under- 
stand it before. It has perplexed me a great deal. 
If it meant anything more than a mere intellectual 
belief, I could not at all apprehend it. I believe I 
finally concluded it did not. But now I see it as 
evervthing. The Bible is full of it. And to think 
that is all, — -just to believe Grod is able and willing to 
do it all, and let him do it, — it is wonderful thai 
should be such, a stone of stumbling. Yet as I 
think of it, it seems to me I cannot conceive of any 
such other sublime act of the mind as that faith in 
things invisible, which the Christian exercises ; and 
to think, too, that any one, — the very lowest orders 
of intellect can and do exercise it strongly ; it must 
be the work of the Spirit of God Eeally to believe 
in God, in a Saviour, in the power of the Holy 
Spirit, and to feel that the things of the soul and 
eternity are realities, seems to me like a new and 
wonderful thing. Even the thought that there is a 
G?J, as it happens to flash across my mind, thrills 



310 HUMAN ABILITY. 

through my very soil. All these ttmgs, — it seems 
to me as if I had just been taught them. 

" If I had been a Christian when I took hold of 
those theological matters it might have been differ- 
ent with me ; but as it was, they pleased my unre- 
generate heart as well as my reason, and it startles 
me to think to what conclusions I was arriving. 1 
know those doctrines well-nigh made shipwreck 
with me. 

" The doctrine of election seems to me now, natu- 
rally, and necessarily to grow out of God's sove- 
reignty. I rebelled against it, because I rebelled 
against Him. And now nothing melts me like it. 
To hear Him say, 'ye have not chosen me, but I 
have chosen you,' and then to think there was not 
a shadow of merit or claim in mo, but it was all His 
own sovereign, absolute will and pleasure, — I can 
only say, ' not unto us, not unto us, but unto thy 
name be all the glory.' That He should have pre- 
destinated us unto the adoption of children according 
to the good pleasure of His will, is certainly in 
keeping with everything else that I have learned, — 
that it is all of God. 'Esaias is very bold,' but I 
begin to see how he may still be right, when he 
says, 4 I was found of them that sought me not, I 
was made manifest unto them that asked not 
after me.' 

" I know and feel that there is yet a great dea] 



HUMAN ABILITY, 311 

to be done in my heart; but I believe I do feel 
more and more as if I could follow on through 
darkuess and shadowy light, trusting that God will 
at length lead me out into perfect day. I cannot 
but think that my old rebellion is gone. I do feel 
willing that He should reign, and I rejoice that He 
does. And if I have any desire in my soul it is for 
God, for the living God, the God that reigns, and 
reigns in grace by Jesus Christ. While heaven 
once seemed desirable only as a place of security 
from eternal death, or at most, of intellectual pleas- 
ure, now what makes my heart go out for it is, that 
there I ' shall be like Him, for I shall see Him as 
He is.' 

" And now it is my heart's desire to live ' as 
seeing Him who is invisible.' And whatever it 
costs me, I would be a humble, decided, constant 
follower of Christ, feeling in my own soul the power 
of that faith, that ' works by love, and purifies the 
heart,' — living the life which I now live, 'by the 
faith of the Son of God, who loved me and gave 

Himself for me.' " 

# * * * 

Oonveision to God is conversion to truth. 



Oijje faults of Christians. 

Among my parishioners, at one time, there was a 
very industrious and respectable man, a mechanic, 
for whom I entertained a high esteem. I thought 
him a man of talents, and of much good feeling. 
He was about thirty years of age, was married, and 
his wife had recently become a child of God, as she 
believed, and had made a public profession of her 
faith in Christ. I had now the more hope of being 
useful to him, on account of his wife's experience 
of grace, and the uniformly happy state of her 
mind. He had also some other relatives who were 
members of my church, and were exemplary Chris- 
tians. He was himself a constant and attentive 
hearer of the gospel every Sabbath day, and when- 
ever I met him, (which was very often,) he was free 
to speak of religion, and confess his obligation and 
his anxiety to be a Christian. I had no small hope 
in his case. I had noticed the increasing depth of 
his seriousness. Besides, I knew him to be a per- 
sonal friend to myself, very much attached to me, 
and on that account I had the more expectation of 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 313 

being able to influence his mind upon the subject, 
which now occupied, as he said, " all his thoughts." 

After his wife had become a pious woman and a 
member of the church, he appeared to become more 
deeply impressed than ever before. The day on 
which she was baptized, and came for the first time 
to the Lord ? s table, was a most solemn day to him. 
He afterwards said to me, " when I saw my wife go 
forward before ail the congregation to be baptized, 
I could not hold up my head, I was forced into 
tears, and I solemnly resolved to put off my salva- 
tion no longer. And I mean to keep that resolu- 
tion." 

After this, I took some pains to see him several 
times, for the purpose of personal conversation. 
He was thoughtful, serious, prayerful; and, as I 
thought, was ' not far from the kingdom of heaven.' 
But as the w^eeks passed on, I was surprised and 
sorry to find, that his religious impressions appeared 
to have come to a stand. They did not vanish ; I 
could not say they had diminished ; but they evi 
dently had not become more deep and influential. 
He used to say to me : " I am trying, and I hope I 
shall yet be a Christian." I cautioned him against 
delay, and against any reliance upon the mere fact, 
that he continued his attempts, while he did not flee 
to Christ. 

In this manner several months passed on. He 
14 



314 THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 

uniformly appeared solemn, often avowed his con- 
viction of his lost condition as a sinner, acknowl- 
edged his need of a Saviour, and lamented the 
wickedness and hardness of his heart. But finding 
him, as I thought, very much stationary, I feared 
that his perceptions of Divine truth were not correct 
and clear, or that his impressions were only super- 
ficial or occasional. And therefore I aimed to deal 
the more plainly with him, and tried, in every way 
I could contrive, to bring the Gospel truths more 
clearly before his mind, and impress them more 
deeply upon his conscience and his heart. With 
the Law of God on the one hand, and the Gospel 
on the other, his conscience to condemn him and 
Christ to invite him, I hoped his heart would be 
brought to surrender in faith. 

It was in one of these conversations, which I was 
accustomed to have with him, that he surprised me 
by expressing a thought, which I had never heard 
from him before. I had just asked him, — 

" What hinders you, my dear sir, from being a 
Christian indeed, since all the grace of the gospel is 
so free, and since you are so sensible that you need 
it?" His answer was, — - 

" I think a great many muie of us would be Chris- 
tians, if professors of religion were different from what 
they are? 

"That may be," said I; "but you know, each 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 315 

one * shall give account of himself unto God.' You 
are no1 accountable for professors of religion, and 
they are not accountable for your irreligion." 

"I know that," said be. "But bow can we be- 
lieve in tbe reality of religion, when members of the 
church and the elders too are dishonest, will lie and 
cheat, and make hard bargains, a great deal worse 
than other people ?" 

"Have you any doubt of the reality of religion?" 

14 Oh, no, I believe in the reality of religion. I 
believe in a change of heart, as much as you do." 

" Then," said I, "you can believe in the reality 
of religion, somehow or other. In that respect you 
have not been misled by our ' dishonest elders and 
church members,' who drive such 'hard bargains, 
a great deal worse than other people.- As to the 
accusation, that our elders and church-members are 
such dishonest and hard men ; I deny it : the accu- 
sation is not true. There may be some bad men in 
the church. There was a Judas among Christ's 
disciples. One of the chosen twelve was a thief. 
But that was no good reason why other people 
should reject Christ. The general character of our 
church-members is not such as you have mentioned. 
You ought not to condemn Matthew and the other 
disciples, because Judas was a villain." 

u Well," said he (with some hesitation), " I know 
some church-members who are no better than other 



316 THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 

people, not a bit better than a great many of us who 
make no profession." 

" Perhaps you do. But what of that ? Will their 
imperfections do you any good? Will their sins 
save you, or excuse you?" 

" Why," — (hesitatingly), — " they ought to set us 
a better example." 

"No doubt of that. And allow me to say, you 
ought to set them a better example. You are under 
as much obligation to set me a good example, as I 
am to set you a good example. You and I are 
under the same law. God commands you to be holy 
as He commands me. It is quite likely, that those 
church-members of whom you complain, would be 
better men, if it was not for such persons as you, 
persons who set them no holy example." 

" Well ; I believe many members of the church 
are great stumbling-blocks ; I know they are." 

Said I, " I believe many, who are not members 
of the church, are great stumbling-blocks ; I know 
they are. You are one of them. You are a stum- 
bling-block and a hindrance to many impenitent 
sinners, to your partner in business, to your neigh- 
bors, to your sisters, and other acquaintances. I am 
sorry for it, but so it is. If you would become a truly 
pious man, these persons would feel your influence 
constraining them to seek the Lord, and your example 
would be a stumbling-block to them no longer." 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 31 7 

"I make no profession of religion," said he. 

" That is the very thing," I replied. " You stand 
aloof from religion entirely, as if you disbelieved in 
it ; and your example just encourages others to neg- 
lect it as you do. You once told me yourself how 
greatly it affected you, when you saw your wife come 
out to be baptized in the presence of the great con- 
gregation. If you would set such an example, it 
would probably affect others." 

44 My wife is a good woman ; she lives as a Chris- 
tian ought to live." 

" Then you have at least one good example." 

14 If all professors of religion were like her, I 
should not find fault with them." 

44 And if you were like her, other people would 
not find fault with you. Your example would com- 
mend religion." 

44 Well ; the example of a great many professors 
does not commend it to me.' 1 

44 Why do you look at the bad examples ? Look 
nearer home. Look at your wife's example. You 
are very unwise to let your thoughts dwell upon the 
faults of Christians at all ; and when you do so, you 
hunt up a few professors of religion, who are not 
by any means a fair specimen of our church-mem- 
bers, and you take ihem as samples of all the rest. 
That is unfair. I am sorry you have run into this 
way of thinking. It will only lead you into error, 



316 THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 

and call off your attention irom the eternal interests 
of your own soul. The faults of others cannot save 
you. I beg of you to think less about other people's 
sins, and more about your own." 

" Well, I will. I know I have had my mind 
turned away from religion many a time, by thinking 
of the conduct of professors." 

A few days after this I met my friend in the 
street, and asked him if he thought he had gained 
the " one thing needful ?" He replied, — 

" No, I don't think I have. But I believe I am 
as good a man as a great many who took the sacra- 
ment yesterday in your church." 

" I am sorry to hear you talk of others again," 
said I ; " you promised me that you would think of 
your own sins, and let the sins of other people alone. 
And now the very first sentence you utter, is a re- 
flection upon some who were at the Lord's table 
yesterday. I am surprised at this. Your hard 
thoughts about other people will lead you, I am 
afraid, farther and farther off from religion." 

" Very likely," said he, " but I can't help it. The 
members of the church set such examples, that my 
mind is turned away from religion by them many a 
time." 

" Yes," said I, " the old prophet knew how that 
was ; i they eat up the sin of my people, and set 
their heart upon iniquity ; they have left off to take 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 319 

heed to the Lord.' You are one of that stamp. 
You seize upon ' the sin of God's people,' as if it 
were bread to you ; and then you forget to pray — ■ 
you have l left off to take heed to the Lord.' After 
you have eagerly fed yourself upon the l sin of 
God's people' for awhile, then you have no inclina- 
tion ' to take heed' to anything God says to you. I 
advise you to eat some other sort of food. ' The 
sin of Gods people' is a bad breakfast. It is very 
indigestible. The wicked seize upon it as if it were 
bread to the hungry ; and the worst of it all is, that 
after they have eaten such a breakfast they have no 
family prayer ; they do not i take heed to the Lord.' 
That is your case, precisely ; you complain of Chris- 
tians, instead of praying for yourself. You never 
pray, after finding fault with members of the church 
for half an hour." 

" How do you know I don't pray ?" 

u I know by the text which I just quoted. You 
1 eat up the sin of God 's people ;' and for that reason, 
1 know that the other part of the text belongs to 
you. You 'have left off to take heed to the Lord.' 1 Is 
it not so ? Have you not left off, ceased to pray, 
since you began to find fault with Christians?" 

" Yes, I own it. I am not going to denj it." 

Said I, " I am very sorry you take such a course. 
You yield to a temptation of the Devil. The best 
Christians are imperfect, very imperfect. They do 



320 THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 

not profess to be sinless. You may see their faults, but 
you cannot see their penitence, and tears, and agony 
of spirit, when in secret they mourn oyer their 
many imperfections, and beg forgiveness of God, and 
grace to be more faithful. If you felt so, if you had 
had done wrong in public through thoughtlessness 
or overcome by some temptation, and then in secret 
should mourn bitterly over your fault ; would you 
think it generous, would you think your disposition 
well treated, or even had any kind of justice done 
to it, if your neighbor should be going around com- 
plaining of your faults, as if you were a bad man?" 

"No, I should not think I deserved that." 

" Very well. These imperfect Christians have 
such secret mournings. And if you will go to them, 
and kindly tell them their faults, you will hear things 
from them which will alter your feelings about 
them ; you will have a better opinion of their hearts 
than you have now, and a more just opinion too. 
Did you ever mention to these people the things you 
complain of?" 

" No, I never did." 

" I think you ought to do it. Certainly you ought 
to do it, or cease to make complaints about them to 
others. Jesus Christ has taught us our duty in 
such a case. 'If thy brother trespass against thee, 
go to him, and tell him his fault betwixt him and 
thee alone.' " 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 321 

" That applies to Christians." 

11 It applies to you. You ought to be a Christian. 
And your neglect of one duty cannot excuse your 
neglect of another. You must not plead one sin as 
an excuse for another. If one of }~our neighbors 
had a bad opinion of you, surely you would much 
rather he should come and tell you what he had 
against you, and hear your explanation, than that 
he should tell it to other people." 

"Yes, I should. But I have called nobody's 
name." 

" I know it ; and I complain of that. Instead of 
pointing out the guilty individuals, you complain 
of Christians in general; and thus you make the 
innocent suffer with the guilty. You make religion 
suffer, (at least in your estimation,) by the faults of 
a few, who profess to be religious people. How 
would you like it, if I should speak of the men of 
your trade as you speak of Christians, and say, 
' Blacksmiths are villains, dishonest men? 7 

" I should want you to name the men." 

"And I want you to name the men. Come, tell 
me who they are, and what tney have done ; and I 
promise you I will have their conduct investigated. 
They shall be tried before the proper tribunal. 
You shall be a witness against them. And if they 
are found guilty, they shall be turned out of the 
church ; and ther. they will be complained of by 

14* 



322 THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 

you no longer, and the good name of religion will 
no more be dishonored by them.' 7 

" Oh. /can't be a witness against anybody." 
"Why not? Can't you tell the truth? Will 
you make religion suffer, rather than bring bad 
men to justice? Will you injure the good name 
of all of us, L church-members and elders too,' as you 
say, instead of lending your assistance to purify the 
church from unworthy members? Will you let 
this thing go on, and let it hinder (as you say it 
does), a great many of you from being Christians?" 
"It is not my business to bear witness against 
church-members. ' ' 

" Why do you do it, then ? You have been doing 
it, every time I have met you, for the last three 
months. And though I have tried to persuade you 
to cease, you still keep on, bearing witness against 
4 church-members and elders,' every time I meet 
you." 

" Well, I don't mean to injure anybodj^." 
" No, sir, I don't think you do. The only one 
you injure is yourself. The general imputations 
which you so often fling out against professors of 
religion, are slanders. They are not true. You may 
think them true, but they are not true. I affirm 
them to be utterly unfounded and false. There 
may be indeed a few persons in the church, who 
are as bad as you declare them to be; but your 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 323 

general accusations are falsehoods. But suppose 
all you say, or even suspect, were true ; suppose 
half of our church-members to be bad men ; in the 
name of all that is common sense, I ask yom, what 
has that to do with your religion? If half the 
money that is in circulation is counterfeit, does that 
make the good money in your pocket valueless ? or 
will it lead you to refuse to take all money ?" 

"I don't want to have counterfeit money ?" 

" And I don't want you to have a counterfeit re- 
ligion. The very fact, that you complain of coun- 
terfeit mone} r , is full proof, that you believe there is 
such a thing as good money somewhere : and your 
complaint of counterfeit religion is full proof, that 
you believe there is such a thing as good religion." 

" Yes, I believe all that," 

u And you believe that you have not attained it." 

11 1 suppose I haven't" 

11 And are you striving to attain it, or are you as 
anxious and prayerful about it as you were a few 
weeks since?" 

" No, I don't think I am." 

" Will you answer me one more question? Has 
not your seriousness diminished, and your prayer- 
fulness ceased, very much in proportion as you 
have had hard thoughts, and made hard speeches 
about the faults of Christians?" 

11 T can't say v. ? to that question." 



324 THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 

" Then I wish you very seriously to consider, 
whether your fault-finding has not provoked God 
to withdraw from you the influences of the Holy 
Spirit ! You do know, that your regard for religion 
and your attempts after salvation, have never been 
promoted by your complaining about Christian 
people. Thinking of their sins, you forget your 
own, as I have told you before. You foster in your 
own heart a spirit of self-righteousness, by your 
miserable and foolish way. I have warned you 
against it before, and I will now warn you again, 
if you will permit me. If you will go on in this 
way, God will leave you to your deceptions and 
your impenitence ; you will live without religion, 
and you will die without it ! I beseech you, there- 
fore, as a friend, as a neighbor, as a minister, dis- 
miss your thoughts about the faults of a few, (for 
they are only a few,) professors of religion, and 
seek from God the forgiveness of your own sins, 
and the salvation you so much need.'' 

I left him. But he never sought me again. Fif- 
teen years have since passed awa}^, and he is still as 
far from God as ever. Often when I have met him, 
I have endeavored to draw him into some conver- 
sation upon religion ; but he avoids the subject, and 
commonly shuns me. 

The Holy Spirit would lead us to think much 



THE FAULTS OF CHRISTIANS. 825 

about our own sins. It is a dangerous thing for us 
to dwell upon the imperfections of others. There 
are many in our congregations, who l quench the 
Spirit,' by complainings and hard speeches about 
communicants of the church. The natural effect 
of this is just to dispel conviction of sin. " I am as 
good as many who belong to the church." If that 
declaration is true, it is utterly deceptive to the man 
that makes it. It leads him to think his sin and 
danger less than ihej are ; it blinds his conscience. 
I never heard of any mortal, on the bed of death, 
apologizing for his irreligion by mentioning the 
faults of Christians. 



Citing la ifiittr (Eofr tit % SRnmg. 

The young woman who wrote the following letter 
had been known to me for years. I had often con- 
versed with her upon religion, and she very much 
made it a matter of speculation merely, as I believed. 
The state of her mind now when she writes, (very 
different from anything I had ever known of her 
before), may be judged of by the following extracts 
from her letter : — 

" For years I have not been indifferent to my 
personal religion, but the incubus that formerly 
held me within its thrall, still distresses me. Dread- 
ful thoughts, that I dare not utter, against the good- 
ness and justice of God, interrupt my efforts to do 
right, and so mingle with my petitions, that I have 
sometimes arisen from prayer in a sort of despera- 
tion — afraid not to pray, but afraid to pray ; and I 
indulge in such fearful imaginations against the God 
of heaven, even while in the act of asking his 
blessing ! 

" I have often tried, sometimes successfully, to 



TRYING TO FIND GOD IN THE WRONG. 327 

lay this matter entirely aside, to give it up, hoping 
that in time some event, in the Providence of God, 
would occur, which would satisfy my mind and 
heart, and bring me to an involuntary decision. But 
I find that time and waiting do me no good, and 
shed no light upon my path. 

"I have endeavored prayerfully to study my 
heart and analyze my feelings ; and I can see no 
reason to hope that I have experienced a change of 
heart. I realize that I am deeply sinful ; but when 
I try to feel grateful to God, that He has provided 
for me an atonement, and to the Saviour that He is 
that atonement, my spirit returns no response of 
tenderness and love — " a mail defends my untouched 
heart," that seems impenetrable to any appeal. Still 
it is my desire to live hereafter entirely to the glory 
of God. 

" Christ is to me c as a root out of a dry ground.' 
I see no beauty in Him ' that I should desire Him.' 
I feel no mournful sorrow for my sins ; and my 
mind and heart seem constantly rising in dreadful 
questioning of every attribute of the character of God. 

" I do not ask, as formerly, why these things are 
so ? why I was created sinful ? why I inherit the 
body of this death ? My appeal to you is no longer 
to answer t^ me what God has never revealed, but 
it is that you will pray for me, that I be not utterly 
rejected of God, that He will hear my prayer and * 



328 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

give me repentance and faith in Christ Oh that I 
could feel that God is my Father, that Jesus Christ 
is my Saviour. Oh that I could love God, that Christ- 
were precious to me. 

" For many months I have wished for counsel on 
this great subject, and I have endeavored to come to 
a decision through prayer and study of the Bible. 
I have wished to visit you, but have feared that I 
was not sufficiently in earnest thus to commit my- 
self. But I can stay away no longer. And may I 
come to you ? And may I ask that you will respond 
to my letter ?*-*'■* It is my sincere prayei 
that you may be instrumental in shedding some 
light upon the cold and callous heart that prompts 
these lines." 

* -5f 4fr 

Such was her letter. The next day I sent her the 
following answer : — 

" Your state of mind has nothing in it new or 
uncommon. The same perplexities, the same dis- 
couragements, despondencies and ( desperations,' the 
same fitfulness and vain hopes of some undefined 
and undefinable good, which have so long affected 
you, have as much affected others. If your heart 
refuses to love God and trust in Christ, and in the 
strength of its rebellion not only refuses to obey 
your will but also entertains feelings, and leads to 






IN THE WRONG. 329 

thoughts about God, which you dare not utier ;' 
the same thing has afflicted thousands before you, 
so that you have no grounds for religious ' despera- 
tion ' on this account. 

w But on this point I have two things to say to 
you: 

" First It is well, (perhaps,) that you see so much 
of your heart's sinfulness. It may be well now and 
forever, if you obey the knowledge w r hich truth and 
the Holy Spirit have given you. This sense of not 
4 loving God,' of finding L no beauty in Christ,' of 
perplexity and fitful ' desperation,' constitutes a part 
of conviction of sin, and it proves the presence of 
the Holy Spirit striving with your soul. 

" Second. After all you have learnt of the deprav- 
ity of your heart, you have yet seen but a very little 
of it. It is a far more corrupt and abominable heart 
in the sight of God, than in your darkest or lightest 
moments you have ever imagined. You have con- 
viction, but evidently your conviction is but partial 
or superficial. You' know only a small part of your 
depravity and danger. 

"And this leads me to say, that your failure to see 
appropriateness and goodness in Christ, and to feel an 
unbounded gratitude to Him, and to the love of the 
Father which gave Him, arises just from your lack 
of feeling your undone condition, and your lack of 
a heart right with God. If you knew we 1 ! your 



330 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

J» 

lost estate, you would at least ' receive the word 
with, gladness/ that there is such a thing as redemp- 
tion for sinners ; you would rejoice that one gleam 
of hope remains, that there is provision and possi- 
bility of salvation. And then you would see clearly 
that the best thing you could do, and the first you 
ought to do, is just to flee to Christ, an undone sin- 
ner, and fall into his arms, ' Lord, save, or I perish.' 
But even after you saw that clearly and determined 
to do that sincerely, another and a worse affliction 
Avould meet you, because you would find your ob- 
stinate heart refuse. And thus the very amount of 
conviction which you sometimes aim after, would not 
do for you what you are wont to suppose. Convic- 
tion is not the Holy Spirit. You need the infinite 
aid of the Holy Ghost. If you ever know your 
own heart well, you will know that you need it and 
must have it, or die an alienated, unconverted sin- 
ner ! And then, prayer will be a reality with you ; 
the cry of want, the voice of despair in self, the 
voice of hope in God and in God only. And then, 
if your resistance of the Holy Ghost does not pro- 
voke Him to depart from you ; your seeking the 
Lord will be with your whole heart, and not as it 
hitherto has been, with only half of it. I refer you 
to Jer. xxix. 12, 13, 14; to Prov. ii. 1, — 5 ; to Isa, 
lv. 6, — end. Your grounds of hope to bring yon to 
faith in Christ must be the Bible and the Holy Spirit. 



IN THE WRONG. 331 

" Your reference to the high and mysterious things 
of God brings up a matter, which I think may easily 
be disposed of: — 

" 1. Whoever believes in a God at all, believes in 
an infinite mystery, and if the existence of God is 
such an infinite mystery, we can very well expect 
and afford to have many of his ways mysterious to 
to us ; yea, our reason demands it. Why ? how ? 
wherefore ? often demand things which not only lie 
beyond man to explain, but beyond man to com- 
prehend, even if they were revealed by the tongue of 
an angel, or the lips of Jehovah himself! 

" 2. There are no more mysteries in religion than 
there are in nature, no more dark and unexplainable 
things. Our life is a mystery, and so is every tree 
and every flower. The power of our will over our 
muscles is a mystery. The same line of demarka- 
tion which separates knowledge from ignorance in 
natural things, separates knowledge from ignorance 
in religious things. The case is this (in general) ; 
we ^.now facts, the modes of them, the why, the how, 
we do not know. In natural things we have no 
hesitancy in acting on the facts, though ignorant of 
the reason of them : for example, we breathe, though 
ignorant of the reason why breathing keeps us 
alive. And if we would act upon the facts of re 
ligion in the same manner, we should be Christians 
indeed. 



332 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

* * * " You say you do not love God. You 
ought to love Him. Be ashamed of your heart (what 
a heart !), if you do not love Him. You have been, 
(are,) ashamed of it. And yet, when you try to 
make it feel, it will not feel at your bidding, 'a 
mail defends your untouched heart.' Do you not 
then feel your helplessness ? Have you not an ex- 
perience, which ought to make you both glad and 
grateful, that God has said to you ' in me is thy help. 1 
Fly to Him, fly now, fly just as you are, poor, vile, 
guilty, lost Do you not know that Jesus Christ 
' came to seek and to save that which was lost.' De- 
lay has done you no good. It never can do you 
any. You wait in vain for ' some event of Provi- 
dence to bring you to an involuntary decision.' 
Such a decision is an absurdity, no decision at all. 
And were it not so, it would be unacceptable to God, 
as it is contrary to the Bible. ' Choose ye this clay 
whom ye will serve.' The choice must be your 
own. 

" What hinders, that you should be a child of 
God ? Is not salvation free ? Is not the invitation 
to it flung out 10 you on every page of the New 
Testament ? Is not Christ offered to you in all his 
offices ? and are you not welcome to all his benefits 
if you want them ? Is not the Holy Spirit promised 
Ho them that ask Him ?' l What more could have 
bee^. done to my vineyard ?' 



IN THE WRONG. 333 

" You say you want to be a Christian. What 
hinders you then ? God the Father wants you to 
be a Christian. God the Son wants you to be a 
Christian. God the Holy Ghost wants you to be a 
Christian. Nothing can hinder you from being a 
Christian, but your own worldly, selfish, proud, ob- 
stinate, unworthy, and self-righteous heart." 

* # 4f 

The following expressions are taken from her 
reply : 

" And is it my fault, that I cannot feel ? I thought 
that I had done all I could, and that God was with- 
holding from me His Spirit. 

" My heart aches and is very sad. Do not let me 
deceive you ; it does not feel, but it aches because it 
cannot. The heavens and the earth seem very 
dark." 

I wrote to her in a second letter,-— 

"It seems to me your note requires from me the 
following remarks : — 

"1. Your hesitancy and backwardness to speak 
of your feelings, to send your letter, &c, are things 
not uncommon with awakened sinners. Such sin- 
ners are often ashamed of Christ. You see, my dear 
girl, that if you would be His disciple, you must 
1 deny yourself, take up your cross and follow ' Him, 



834 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

I respect the shrinking modesty of your feelings, 
but I suspect that the shame of sin has also an influ- 
ence upon you. If you shrink from Christ } t ou 
cannot be His. 

" 2. The complaint that you { cannot feel,' is an 
almost universal one with sinners whom God's Spirit 
alarms. It is one of the strongest of all proofs that 
the Holy Spirit is striving with the soul. Tread 
softly, my dear girl. ' Quench not the Spirit.' 
1 Grieve not the Holy Spirit of God.' Eemember, 
L my Spirit shall not always strive with man.' ' To- 
day, if ye will hear his voice.' 

4 '3. Evidently you try to make your heart /e^. 
I do not wonder at you. I do not blame }^ou. But 
it will not feel for you. You cannot make it feel. 
Only one hope remains for } r ou ; give it to God, and 
He will make it feel, — to God as it is, hard, sense- 
less, stupid, — to God in Christ, promising to be ytmr 
Father and your friend. 

"When you aim to make your heart feel, you 
are making (ignorantly) an effort of self-righteous- 
ness. You wish it to feel, because you think there 
would be some worthiness in its emotions. It is too 
hard for you. Give it to God as it is, — you cannot 
make it any better. 

" 4. You ' thought you had done all you could.' 
I suppose you have ' done all you could ' to save 
yourself. And yet you have accomplished nothing. 



IN THE W.tOXG. 335 

You cannot Fly, then, to Christ, — to Christ, just 
as you are, just as unfeeling, just as unworthy, — to 
Christ now, ' while it is called to-day. 1 Be assured 
you are welcome to all His benefits. 

" Finally, you are 'sad.' You ought to be joy- 
ful. You may be, if you will trust your Saviour. 
4 Rejoice in the Lord' is Bible exhortation,— a 'pre- 
cept. Obey it. Why are you sad ? Because you 
look into your dark heart, instead of looking to 
Christ, who died to redeem you. Look up, if you 
would have your eye catch the sunbeam that shall 
gladden you." 

¥r X # 

Her reply contained the following expressions :— 

"How can I dare to ask or expect that Christ 
will accept of such a cold, strange, unloving, un- 
feeling heart, and not only love me, but allow me to 
ask of Him such vast favors ? Surely there is no 
analog) 7 to such a case in nature or reason. It 
seems to me as if, (pardon me), you don't understand 
me. If God ever softens my heart, I suppose it will 
follow as a matter of course, that I shall love Christ, 
and then I can dare to venture to go to Him. * * * 
1 spoke of my heart but I used a wrong expression. 
It seems to me as if, in regard to Gocl, Christ, re- 
pentance, I am but senseless matter; heart I have 
none, and even my brain seems stupefied upon this 



336 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

great subject. * * * Oh, that I could 'look up 
and see the bright sunbeam that should gladden 
me.' The thought brings tears to my eyes, — -would 
that it could thaw my very heart." 

So she wrote. I sent the following answer :— 

"Your present hindrance appears to me to be 
very much this : — you aim to do for yourself what 
the Holy Spirit must do for you. ' In me is thy 
help, 7 says God, and He would have you believe it. 
All along you have been aiming to work yourself 
up into a state of affection, which should bring you 
relief. But, my dear child, it is God that must 
bring you relief. You are to trust Him, rely on 
Him, leave all with Him. You cannot help your- 
self. You can no more put your heart right than 
you can pardon your own sins. Your heart has 
been too mighty for all your efforts, and will remain 
so. But it is not too mighty for God. There is 
help for you in Him, and you will find it if you will 
fling down the weapons of your rebellion, and sub- 
mit to Him in Christ. * * * . * Would to God, 
that you knew your utterly helpless condition, and 
would fall into the arms of the Saviour, who loves 
you and invites you to His arms. Go to your God 
and Saviour, my child, just as the prodigal went to 
his father, (I/ike, xv.) and you shall be accepted as 



IN THE WRONG. 337 



he was. If you do not go, you must find your 
grave in some far-off land ! Go now. Go just as 



you are." 



•* # 



She afterwards referred to this letter. Said she, 
— " until I received that letter, I never had the idea 
that some other power must do for me. That letter 
first gave me the idea that I must go somewhere 
else than to myself. Not till then had I understood 
at all your former letters, directing me to the Saviour." 

After this I had frequent conversations with her. 
Evidently she was perfectly sincere, and deeply 
anxious. But she could not perceive that her fail 
ure to gain peace with God w r as owing to anything 
in herself, nor could she believe that she was power- 
less in herself, in respect to putting her heart right, 
aside from God's help. Often she said to me, — 

" I am very miserable. I do desire to love God. 
Above all things I wash to be a Christian. What 
is the reason I do not get some light?" I con- 
stantly presented to her the same truths which I had 
written, assured her of the fulness and free grace 
of Christ, and that it was her self-reliance and self- 
seeking alone w r hich hindered her salvation. 

One evening she left me in a most anxious and 
downcast state of mind. The next day, she said to 
me, "I have called, you will think, very soon. 
But I have come to tell you, that I am as happy to- 

15 



338 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

day, as I was miserable yesterday. I found I could 
do nothing. I was helpless. I had exhausted all 
my powers, and still was just the same. All I could 
do, was to pray, and depend on God. I am noth- 
ing. Never before have I had such a sense of 
my sinfulness, and it is now sweet to think I may 
rely upon God. 7 ' I asked her, — ■ 

" What hindered you so long?" 

" All my life," said she, " I have stopped at the 
same place. I have read the Bible, and prayed, but 
my mind would find some difficulty, and stop there. 
All my days I have been trying to find God in the 
wrong . v 

" Wherein were you wrong, yourself?" 

" I was not willing to trust God. I thought (or 
tried to think,) it was not my fault that I was not a 
Christian. Your letter astonished me. How could 
I have been so ignorant of God ? I did not know 
till I got your letter, that a sinner might come to 
Christ just as he is. It seems to me that people do 
not understand that. I never understood it before. 
I want you to preach that, so that people may know 
it. It was all new to me ! At first I did not be- 
lieve it. How could you know how I should be 
affected all along ; and that, after I should see the 
sinfulness of my heart, and be determined to obey 
God, a ' worse difficulty would meet ' me ; my heart 
* would refuse to trust?' I see it now. Before, I 



IN THE WRONG. 339 

did not think it was my fault that I was not a Chris- 
tian. I tried all the time to put God in the wrong" 

Because this young woman had asked me to 
preach the same things to others, which had so 
much surprised and profited her ; I requested her 
to make for me a written statement of her religious 
experience. A short time afterwards, she gave me 
the following : — 

" Ever since I had given up the study of reli- 
gious truth, as a mere intellectual speculation; I 
had for years tried to pursue it with and for my 
heart. Distressed with doubts and darkness, but 
hoping, that God would some time or other take 
them from me ; I studied the Bible with prayer, 
and endeavored to be governed by its teachings, 
and enjoyed and appreciated spiritual things to such 
a degree, that my state seemed often very strange to 
me ; for I realized that I did not love God, and felt 
no interest in Christ, and knew that without this 
there was no true religion. Still I felt no alarm, 
thinking it evidence that I was not vitally in error, 
because I was so desirous to be right. I thought I 
was all but entirely religious, but as these were fun- 
damental wants, and as I was sincerely desirous to 
come to a decision upon this subject, I determined 
to attain them. But in this I could not succeed. I 
tried very hard, laboriously, but could not make 



340 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

myself love God. My mind in its efforts, invaria- 
bly, at a certain point, came to a stop. I perceived 
that there was an obstacle there that always over- 
threw me, but could not tell what it was. I felt no 
pain at this, because I thought I had done all I 
could, when God withheld from me His Spirit, and, 
(can I express the dreadful thought !) that the fault 
was God's and not mine ! But, as others did suc- 
ceed, it must be that I could ; and, afraid to die as 
I was, I persisted in using every faculty to gain my 
object, but it was of no use. 

" I became convinced that all my trying, and all 
my searching, were in vain ; and, tired of wearying 
myself longer in fruitless efforts, I determined to 
make a statement of my feelings to you, not doubt- 
ing that you could soon enlighten me, and thinking 
that, as soon as I discovered the point that was now 
hidden from me, I should love God ; and that then 
a knowledge of and interest in the Saviour would 
follow as a matter of course. 

" I can give you no idea of the FAR off distance 
with which I had always regarded Christ. It is 
with difficulty that I can suppress the comments, 
that my heart instinct? ely responded to every sen- 
tence of your letter r, as I read them. But I will 
only say, that my mind, heart, and senses, were in 
a maze, when I perceived their contents so contrary 
to my expectations. 



IN THE WRONG. 341 

M That my ' heart refused to love God and trust in 
Christ ) ,' — that 'the Holy Spirit was striving with me,' 
— that ' I knew only a small part of my depravity and 
danger,' — that 'my failure to feel an unbounded 
gratitude to the Saviour, and to the love of the 
Father who gave Him, arose from my lack of feeling 
my undone condition, and my lack of a heart right 
with God,'- — that 1 1 had been seeking God with only 
half my heart, 1 — were positions totally inadmissible 
to my belief, so strong was the impression on my 
mind that I was nearly, entirely right : and I was 
between laughing and displeasure, at the denuncia- 
tions you pronounced upon my heart throughout, 
and especially at the close of your first letter. 

" At first, I concluded that you had not in the 
least understood or appreciated me ; and next, that 
you were unnecessarily severe ; but by degrees the 
conviction began to steal over me, with a feeling 
that I cannot describe. Is it so f Am I all wrong ? 
Is it my fault that I do not love God ? Has the 
Holy Spirit been striving with my heart? when I 
thought I had been breasting the tide alone so long, 
and God had looked so coldly on my struggles ? 

M But a greater surprise awaited me ; your remedy 
for my difficulties, when you directed me to L fly to 
Christ just as I was. 1 i When you aim to make your 
heart feel, you are making (ignorantly) an effort of 
of self-righteousness.' * * * l It is too hard for 



342 TRYING TO FIND GOD 

you. Give it to God as it is ; you cannot make it ' 
better.' . . . . ' You thought you had done all 
you could. I suppose you have done all you could 
to save yourself, and yet you have accomplished 
nothing. You cannot. Fly then to Christ — to 
Christ, just as you are — just as unfeeling, just as un- 
worthy ; to Christ now? So you wrote to me. 

" Here my heart fails me to express my emotions. 
I require another medium than words to tell what I 
felt. Fly to Christ ? just as I am ? to Christ now ? 
Give Him my heart, just as it is ? I have never 
thought anything about Christ. He has always been 
last in my thoughts ; and fly to Him first ? fly to Him 
now? stop trying, and He do all? Impossible! 
You did not understand me ! My powers seemed 
stunned. I tried not to think about it ; and after 
some days of perturbation I went to see you, hoping 
you would say to me something different — something 
on which I could act ; but your remarks were all 
the same. I was very much disappointed, and list- 
ened in respectful silence — though thinking while 
you were speaking that you had little idea of their 
subsequent use to me. I came home without the 
slightest idea of doing as you had said, certain that 
you were not aware of what you had told me to do. 
But that I was all ivrong, that I had not a single right 
feeling ; that I was so far, far from God, when I thought 
I was all right, but in one item, (which would ne- 



IN THE WRONG. 343 

cessarily come right after I loved God,) was very 
distressing to me. What could I do ? It seemed to 
me that I had a mightier effort to make now than 
ever before, and I was afraid I should die before I 
should have time to accomplish it. Oh, the troubled 
sea that tossed within my poor heart, I cannot bear 
to think upon ! But do something I must. I tried 
to pray ; but it seemed as if the heavens and earth 
were brass, above and beneath me. I examined the 
Bible, and all the references to the texts to which 
you referred me, and found that it substantiated 
your every word, and I began to feel that all you 
had said was true. And then I wondered that you 
had never told me so before ! I was sure that I had 
never heard it in any of the years of your sermons, to 
which I had so interestedly listened ; and I could not 
remember that you had ever told it to me, in any of the 
previous conversations that you had had with me. I 
was not conscious that I had ever before seen it in 
the Bible. If I had, I had never comprehended it 
with even an ordinary amount of common intelligence ; 
it was an entirely new truth. 

"Oh how can I describe my ineffectual efforts 
to grope and feel after Christ, through the thick dark- 
ness ! I could not find Him. I could only cry. 
Jesus, Master, have mercy upon me ; and ask Him 
to take my heart, for I could not give it to Him." 



§dm : or, \\z %at$tH €mt 

A you:n t g man called upon me one Sabbath even- 
ing, and as soon as we were seated, he said to 
me, — 

" I have accepted the invitation that you have so 
often given from the pulpit, to any who are willing 
to converse with you upon the subject of religion." 

" I am glad to see you," said I. 

" I don't know," he replied,' " as I have anything 
to say, such as I ought to have ; but I am convinced 
that I have neglected religion long enough, and I am 
determined to put it off no longer." 

" That is a good determination," said I, " L Behold 
now is the accepted time, behold now is the day of 
salvation. ' " 

" Well, I don't know as that text is for me, be- 
cause " 

" Yes, it is for you," said I, interrupting him. 

" I was going to say, sir, I don't suppose I have 
got so far as that yet, so that salvation is for me 
now." 

" You told me that you was l determined to put 



delay: or, the accepted time. 345 

off religion no longer;' and therefore I say, l now ia 
the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.' " 

" But I don't wish to be in a hurry, sir." 

" You ought to be in haste. David was. He says, 
4 1 thought on my ways and turned my feet to 
thy testimonies. I made haste and delayed not to 
keep thy commandments.' God now commandeth 
all men, everywhere, to repent, and you are one 
of them. And if you are like David, you will 
( make haste and delay not ' to keep God's command- 
ments." 

" I don't suppose I am in such a state of mind, as 
to be prepared to become a Christian now" 

"Will disobeying God put you in a better state 
of mind, do you think ?" 

" Why, I don't know ; but I have not much deep 
conviction. I know that I am a sinner against God, 
and I wish to turn to Him, and live a different life." 

11 Then turn to Him. Now is the accepted time." 

11 But I find my heart is full of sin ; I am all 
wrong ; I feel an opposition to God such as I never 
felt before." 

u Then repent and turn to God instantly, while it 
is called to-day." 

" But I don't suppose I can be ready to come to 
religion so quick" 

11 You said you was determined to put it off no 
longer, and I told you 'now is the accepted time.' " 

15* 



346 delay: or, the accepted time. 

" But I never began to think seriously about my 

religion till last Sunday." 

" And so you want to put it off a little longer." 

" Why I want to get ready." 

{ L And are you getting ready? You have tried 

it for a week." 

u No sir," said he in a sad manner, u I don't think 

I am any nearer to it than I was at first." 

u I don't think you are. And I suppose the rea- 
son is, that you don't believe ' now is the accepted 

time.' " 

" Oh, yes, I do ; for the Bible says so." 

" Then don't wait for any other time. Bepent 

now. Flee to Christ now, in l the accepted time.' " 
" I have not conviction enough yet." 
" Then it cannot be the L accepted time 5 yet." 
" But I have not faith enough." 
" Then it cannot be * the accepted time.' " 
" Well, sir, I, — I, — I am not ready now." 
" Then it cannot be ' the accepted time' now." 
" But it seems to me, it is too quick" said he 

earnestly. 

"Then it cannot be 'the accepted time,' and the 

Bible has made a mistake." 

"But, sir, my heart is not prepared." 

" Then it is not { the accepted time.' " 

With much embarrassment in his manner, he re* 

plied, — 



delay: or, the accepted time. 347 

" What shall I do?" 

" Repent and turn to God, with faith in Christ to 
save you as a lost, unworthy sinner, now in ' the 
accepted time.' " 

He appeared to be in a great strait. He sat in 
silence with very manifest uneasiness for a few mo- 
ments, and then asked, — 

"Is it possible that any one should repent, and 
give up the world, and turn to God so soon, when I 
began to think about it only last Sunday ?" 

" l Now is the accepted time,' " said I. 

Again he sat in thoughtful silence, and after a 
time he asked me, — 

" Is salvation offered to sinners now?" 

" Yes, now. l Now is the day of salvation.' " 

" But it seems to me I am not prepared now to 
give up the world." 

" That very thing is your difficulty. You are not 
prepared ; but ' now is the accepted time.' You 
wish to put off your repentance and conversion to 
Christ till some other time ; but i now is the accepted 
time.' You and your Bible disagree. And if no- 
thing else kept you from salvation, this would be 
enough. I beseech you, my dear friend, delay no 
longer. Now is God's time. ' Deny yourself, and 
take up your cross, and follow Jesus Christ.' You 
told me you was determined to put off religion no 
longer. I suspected you did not know your own 



348 delay: or, the accepted time. 

heart, and therefore said to you { now is the accepted 
time.' And now it has become manifest, that you 
meant to put off religion till some other time, all 
the while." 

"It seems hard to shut up a man just to the 
present time," said he, in an imploring accent. 

" If you were a dying man, and had only an hour 
to live, you would not say so. You would be glad 
to have the Bible say to you, ' now is the accepted 
time,' instead of telling you, you needed a month or 
a week to flee to Christ. It is mercy in God to say 
to you, * behold now is the day of salvation,' when 
you do not know as you will live till to-morrow 
morning." 

" Will you pray with me?" said he. 

I prayed with him, and we separated. The last 
words I uttered to him as he left the door, were, 
"now is the accepted time." 

Just one week afterwards he called upon me, " to 
give an account of himself," as he said, — 

" I have got out of my trouble," said he. " Now, 
I trust in Christ, and I am reconciled to God, or at 
least I think so. I thought you were very hard 
upon me last Sunday night, when you hammered 
me, and hammered me with that text, — ' now is the 
accepted time.' But I couldn't get away from it. 
It followed me everywhere. I would think of one 
thing, and then that would come up, ' now is the 



delay: or, the accepted time. 349 

accepted time.' Then I would begin to think of 
something else, and it would come up again, l now 
is the accepted time.' So I went on for three days. 
I tried to forget that text, but I could not I said to 
myself, there is something else in the Bible except 
that ; but wherever I read, that would come to my 
mind. It annoyed me and tormented me. Finally, 
I began to question myself, why it was that this 
plagued me so much ? And I found it was because 
I was not willing to be saved by Christ I was trying 
to do something for myself, and I wanted more 
time. But it was not done. Everything failed me. 
And then I thought, if ' now is the accepted time, 7 
I may go to Christ now, wicked as I am. So I just 
prayed for mercy, and gave up all to Him." 

The idea of this young man was new to me It 
had never entered my mind, that when one wants 
more time, it is " because he is not willing to be saved 
by Christ^ I suppose that is true. A delaying sin- 
ner is a legalist. Self-righteousness delays. How 
little the procrastinating know about their own 
hearts ! 



Jjrpual fitfhtnue. 



A membee of my church, the mother of a family, 
was sick, and I visited her. In conversation with 
her I discovered that her mind was shrouded in 
darkness and gloom. I prolonged the conversation, 
hoping to be able so to present divine truth to her 
mind, that she should see some light, and gain some 
comfort from the promises; or if I failed in that, 
hoping to discover the cause of her religious dark- 
ness. But it was all in vain. I left her as dark as 
ever, without discovering the cause of her gloom. 

I soon visited her again. She was the same as 
before. "Dark! dark! all dark!" says she, in an- 
swer to my inquiry. " I have not long to live, and 
I am sure I am not fit to die." She wept in agony. 
I pointed her to Christ, and recited to her the 
promises. I explained justification by faith in 
Christ Jesus, the undone condition of sinners, salva- 
tion by free grace, the offer and operations of the 
Holy Spirit, and the readiness of Christ to accept 
all that come unto Him. She only wept and 
groaned. 






PHYSICAL INFLUENCE. 351 

With much the same result I conversed with her 
many times. I could but imperfectly discover what 
had been the character of her religious exercises 
while she was in health ; but she despised them all, 
and counted them only as deception. When I 
treated her as a backslider, and referred her to what 
the sacred Scriptures address to such persons, in- 
viting them to return unto their God ; the very free- 
ness and friendliness of the invitations appeared to 
distress her. When I treated her as a believer 
under a cloud, a child of God, from whom our 
heavenly Father takes away the light of His coun- 
tenance, for some reason which we cannot explain, 
— perhaps to manifest His sovereignty, perhaps to 
teach us our spiritual dependence, perhaps to arouse 
our efforts to draw nearer to Him, perhaps to teach 
us deeper lessons about religion, and give us richer 
experiences as He leads us, for a time, "in a way 
we know not," — all these ideas appeared to increase 
her distress. If I treated her as an impenitent sin- 
ner, it was the same thing. Gloom, distress, despair, 
had taken possession of her soul ! 

After I had known her to be in this condition for 
several months, I called upon her, and to my sur- 
prise found that her mind was calm; her despair 
and distress had given place to hope and gladness 
of spirit. She could trust in God, she could submit 
to His will, rejoicing to be in His hands, she could 



352 PHYSICAL INFLUENCE. 

rest upon the sufficiency of her Saviour; — " Jesus 
Christ is mine," said she, and I am glad to 
be His." 

Three days after this, when I saw her again, her 
light had departed, and all her former darkness and 
despair had returned. A few days afterwards, I 
found she had become calm and hopeful again, and 
then again in a few days I found her as gloomy as 
ever. Thus for months she alternated from gloom 
to gladness, and from gladness to gloom. I could 
not understand it. I studied her case, and tried in 
every mode I could think of, to find out why she 
should thus be tossed about betwixt hope and fear. 
But I studied in vain. 

After awhile, as I was conversing with her one 
morning, when she was in one of her happy frames, 
I recollected that she had always been so whenever 
I had seen her in the morning, and had always 
been in darkness whenever I had seen her in the 
afternoon. I mentioned this fact to her, and asked 
her to account for it. She acknowledged the fact, 
but made no attempt to explain it. I explained it 
to her, as the result of her physical condition. 
Every morning, she awoke free from pain, and then 
her views were clear, and her mind comfortable. 
She continued in this comfortable frame till nearly 
noon, when, as her pain in the head returned, all 
her peace of mind vanished. This experience was 






PHYSICAL INFLUENCE. 353 

uniform with her, week after week ; and when I 
now called her attention to it, and explained her 
religions gloom as the resnlt of her physical state, 
she was satisfied that the explanation was just. 
But, a week afterwards, when I saw her in the 
afternoon, her mind was as dark as ever ; and then 
she rejected the explanation ; she could not be made 
to believe that her darkness was owing to her dis- 
ease. So it was with her, week after week. She 
had a comfortable hope every morning ; she was in 
despair every afternoon. In the morning she would 
believe that her afternoon despair was caused by her 
bodily infirmity; but in the afternoon, she would 
entirelv disbelieve it. Thus she continued. 

A few weeks before her death, and when her 
bodily condition had become different ; all her dark- 
ness was gone, her mind continued light through 
the whole twenty -four hours ; and she finally died 
in peace, with the full hope of a blessed immortality 
through our Lord Jesus Christ. 

Despondency does not always arise from the same 
cause. It is difficult to deal with it; but there is 
one great principle, which has been of much use to 
myself, and which has some illustration in the fol- 
lowing sketch. 



Cratumtt of % iespn^iitg; 

In making visits to the sick, I became acquainted 
with a woman belonging to my congregation, with 
whom I had very little acquaintance before. She 
was in a very distressful state of mind. " I am a 
sinner," says she, "lam the vilest of sinners! I 
must soon meet my God, and I have no preparation 
to meet Him ! I see before me nothing but His 
wrath, His dreadful wrath forever ! Indeed I feel 
it this moment within my soul ! It drinks up my 
spirit ! God curses me now ; and oh ! how can I 
bear His eternal curse, when He shall cast me off 
forever!" 

" Grod is merciful, Madam," said I. 

" I know He is merciful, sir, but I have despised 
His mercy; and now the thought of it torments 
my soul ! If He had no mercy, I could meet Him : 
I could take the curse of the Law, and it would not 
be the half of the hell which now awaits me ! But 
oh, I cannot hear,- — I cannot bear the curse of the 
Law and the Gospel both ! I must account to the 
Lord Jesus Christ for having slighted His offers ! 



TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 355 

I have turned a deaf ear to all His kind invitations ! 
I have trampled under foot the blood of the cov- 
enant ! and I am soon to appear before Him, my 
feet wet with His blood, instead of having it sprin- 
kled on my heart !" (She wept and wailed, as if 
on the borders of the pit.) 

" Madam, there is no need that you should appear 
thus before Him. The same offers of mercy are still 
made to you, which have been made to you before. 
The same throne of grace still stands in heaven ; 
the same God is seated upon it ; the same Christ 
reigns as Mediator; and the same Spirit is still pro- 
mised ' to them that ask Him.' The invitation of 
God is as broad as the wants of sinners : ' Whoso- 
ever will, let him take the water of life freely.' " 

" I know it, sir; I know all that. And this is 
the burden of my anguish — the offer is so free, and 
I have no heart to accept it ! If the offer was ac- 
companied by any difficult conditions, I might think 
myself partly excusable for not accepting it. But 
it is all so free, and, fool that I am, I have all my days 
shut up my heart against it; and even now, I am 
rebellious and unbelieving. Oh ! my heart is sense- 
less as a brute's ! it cannot feel ! it is harder than the 
nether millstone !" 

" I am glad you are sensible of that; because it 
prepares you to understand the promise, 'I will take 
away the stony heart out of your flesh, and /will 



356 TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 

give you a heart of flesh, and /will put my spirit 
within you.' God says this; and yon perceive 
He makes His promise for just such hearts as 
yours." 

" Oh, 1 wish I could believe it ! My heart won't 
believe. It disbelieves God ! It makes Him a liar, 
because it believes not the testimony which God gave 
of His Son!" 

" Madam, think a moment ; if you did not believe 
that testimony, you could not be distressed on ac- 
count of your unbelief. If you were hungry, and 
you did not believe there was any food upon the 
earth, 3^ou could not be distressed because you did 
not believe there was food enough. You might be 
distressed because there was no food, but you could 
not be distressed because you did not believe there 
was any ; you would not wish to believe in a false- 
hood, or in what you deem a falsehood." 

11 I have not any doubt of the truth of God's 
"Word, sir ; but my heart does not trust in it. It will 
not trust. I have no faith." 

" You have sometimes thought you had faith?" 

u Yes, I did think so ; but I was deceived. I 
have made a false profession. I have profaned the 
Lord's table ! When I was a young woman, in 
Scotland, I first came forward, and I have attended 
on the ordinance of the table ever since, whenever 
T could. But I see now that I have been only a 



TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 357 

mere professor — one of the foolish virgins. For 
forty years I have been a communicant ; and now, 
when my days are nearly done, the Lord frowns 
upon me for my sin. I feel it ; I feel it. His wrath 
lies heavy on my soul ! He knows I am an empty 
hypocrite, and he frowns upon me in His awful dis- 
pleasure I" 

" How long since you found out that you had no 
true faith ?" 

" I have suspected it a great many times, but I 
was never fully convinced of it till since I have been 
confined to the house with this sickness.' 1 

" Before you was sick did you enjoy a comfortable 
hope in Christ?" 

"I thought I did, almost always after I made my 
first sacrament. That was a very solemn day to 
me. It was before I was married. I was nearly 
twenty, and my parents and the minister had often 
enjoined my duty upon me ; and after a long strug- 
gle with my wicked heart, and after much prayer, I 
thought I was prepared. But I deceived my own soul ! 
I have been deceived ever since till now ; and now 
God fills me with terror ! I shall soon meet him, 
and he will cast me off!" She wept piteously 

" Have you lived a prayerful life since you came 
to the communion first ?" 

" Yes, I have prayed night and morning ; but I 
see now that I never played acceptably." 



358 TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 

" Are you penitent for your sins ? Do you mourn 
over them ?" 

" Yes, I mourn ; but I have ' only a fearful look- 
ing for of judgment and fiery indignation.' My 
soul is in torment ! God will cast me off ! I shall 
be lost for ever ! lost! lost!" 

" It is a faithful saying and worthy of all accep- 
tation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save 
sinners." 

"I believe it, sir. He is a great and glorious 
Saviour." 

" Your Saviour, Madam, if you want Him to be." 

" No sir ; no, not mine ; not mine." (Again burst- 
ing into tears.) 

" Yes, Madam, — Yours, if you want him; — yours 
in welcome ; — yours now, on the spot ; — yours, if 
you will i receive and rest upon him, as he is offered 
in the Gospel;' — yours, if you have never received 
him before ; — yours still, even if you have profaned 
his covenant, as you say, for forty years. You have 
only to believe in Him with penitence and humility. 
Christ is greater than your sin." 

As I was uttering these words, she continued to 
repeat the word, " No, no, no, no," weeping most 
distressfully. Said I, — • 

" Madam, suffer me to beg of you to hear me 
calmly." 

" I will try. sir." 



TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 359 

" I utter to you God's own truth, madam. I tell 
you Jesus Christ is for you. He is offered to you by 
the God of heaven. He proposes to be your Pro- 
phet, Priest, and King, to do for you all you need 
as a sinner to be saved. He is an all-sufficient 
Saviour. And in the presence of his merits, I defy 
your despair. Salvation is of grace — of God's grace, 
— of grace operating in the infinite love of God, and 
by the infinite humiliation of his Son. Here is ful- 
ness, the fulness of God. 4 Christ is the end of the 
law for righteousness.' Jesus Christ did not fail in 
his attempt, when he undertook to redeem sinners. 
He did His work well. His love brought Him from 
heaven, and took Him through all the path of His 
humiliation, from the cradle to the grave. He bore 
the curse, and sinners may go free. He reigns in 
heaven, the King of glory, and sinners may meet 
Him there." 

"Indeed, sir, he is a wonderful Lord. He hath 
done all things well. I am glad He is on the throne, 
When I can catch a glimpse of His glory, my heart 
rejoices." 

" And His glory lies in grace, Madam ; such grace 
that He invites you to cast all your cares upon Him, 
for He careth for you." 

u I praise Him for it ; I will praise Him forever, 
I rejoice that Christ is Lord over all." 

She appeared to have lost her trouble. She had 



360 TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 

become calm ; and she continued to speak of the 
love of God, and the adorable condescension of 
Jesus Christ, for some minutes. She asked me to 
pray with her, and praise God for His wondrous 
grace. After prayer I left her, supposing that her 
despondency had been but for a few minutes, and 
would not return. 

The next week I saw her again, as she had re- 
quested me to do ; and I found her in the same 
deep despondency as before. She continued to 
speak of herself; and all I said to her gave no alle- 
viation to her anguish. 

Several times I visited her. Uniformly I found 
her depressed, and sometimes left her rejoicing, and 
sometimes sad. I could not account for it. 

At length it occurred to me, as I was thinking of 
the different conversations I had had with her, that 
her mind had uniformly become composed, if not 
happy, whenever I had led her thoughts away from 
herself, to fix on such subjects as God, Christ, Ee- 
deeming love, the covenant of grace, the sufferings 
of the Eedeemer, the Divine attributes, or the glory 
of God. Afterwards I tried the experiment with 
her frequently, and the result was always so. I 
finally stated to her that fact. 

" Oh, yes sir," said she, " I know that very well 
It has always been so with me ever since about the 
time I made my first sacrament. If I can get my 



TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 361 

mind fixed on my covenant God and Saviour, then 
I can rest. But how can I rest when I have no 
faith?" 

"But, Madam, can you not remember, in your 
dark hours, what it was that made you have light 
ones? and can you not then recur to the same 
things which made them light, and thus get light 
again ?" 

" Oh, sir, I cannot see the sun through the thick clouds. 
God hides himself, and I cannot find him ; and then 
I mourn. I know it is Satan that would drive me 
to despair. He shoots out his ' fiery darts ' at me, 
and my poor soul trembles in anguish. I cannot 
help trembling, even when I know it is Satan. I 
have such awful doubts, such horrible temptations 
darting through my mind, and such blasphemous 
thoughts, that I feel sure God will cast me off." 

This woman never recovered from her sickness ; 
but the last ten weeks of her life were all sunshine. 
She had not a doubt, not a fear ; all was peace and 
joy. Alluding. to this, she said, — 

" God does not suffer the adversary to buffet me 
any more. Christ has vanquished him for me, and 
I find the blessed promises are the supports of my 
soul. I fly to them. I fly to Christ, and hide my- 
self in Him. I expect soon He will l come again 
and receive me to Himself/ that I may be with Him 

16 



362 TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING* 

4 where He is.' I shall behold His glory, and Satan 
shall never torment me any more." 
She died in perfect peace. 

There is a difference betwixt the despondency of 
a believer, and the despondency of an unbeliever. 
A desponding believer still has faith. It only needs 
to be brought into lively exercise, and his despond- 
ency will melt away. He becomes desponding, be- 
cause he has lost sight of the objects of faith, and 
has fixed his thoughts upon himself and his sins. 
Let the matters of faith be brought up before his 
mind, and they are realities to him, — unquestionable 
realities. He only needs to keep his eye upon them. 

The despondency of an unbeliever is different. 
He does not despond, because he has lost sight of 
the objects of faith, for he never had any faith ; and 
there is, therefore, no preparation in his heart to 
welcome the doctrines of grace, of free forgiveness, 
of redemption through the blood of Christ, of eternal 
life for sinners. These things are not realities to 
him. His faith never embraced them. When, 
therefore, in his despondency, whether he looks at 
his own wickedness or looks at God, he sees only 
darkness. Especially, the love and mercy of God, 
the death of Christ for sinners, all redemption, are 
things as dark to him as his own soul. He does not 
realize them as facts ; much less does he embrace 



TREATMENT OF THE DESPONDING. 363 

them for himself. In the self-righteousness of his 
spirit he desponds, because tie thinks himself too 
guilty to be forgiven. He is a mere legalist ; he 
sees only the law, — not Christ. 

But there is only one way of relief for believer 
and unbeliever in their despondency. They must 
look to Christ, and to Christ alone, all-sufficient and 
free. A believer has a sort of preparation to do 
this ; an unbeliever has an obstinate reluctance. 
He thinks only of himself and his sins. Nothing 
can magnify equal to melancholy, and nothing is so 
monotonous. A melancholy man left to himself, 
and the sway of his melancholy, will not have a new 
thought once in a month. His thoughts will move 
round and round in the same dark circle. This will 
do him no good. He ought to get out of it. 

Despondency originates from physical causes more 
than from all other causes. Disordered nerves are 
the origin of much religious despair, when the indi- 
vidual does not suspect it ; and then the body and 
mind have a reciprocal influence upon each other, 
and it is difficult to tell which influences the other 
most. The physician is often blamed, when the 
fault lies in the minister. Depression never benefits 
body or soul. " We are saved by hope." 



Eitknatim Ifyxmm of X\t Spirit 

As I was passing along the street one morning, I 
saw a lady, a member of my church, just leaving 
her house, and I supposed she would probably be 
absent a half an hour or more, — long enough for 
me to accomplish what I had often desired. There 
was a young woman, a member of her family, who 
was very beautiful, and reputed to be quite gay, to 
whom I had sometimes spoken on the subject of 
religion, but I had never found any opportunity to 
speak to her alone. I had thought that she was 
embarrassed and somewhat confused by the pres- 
ence of this lady, whenever I had mentioned the 
subject of religion to her, and, therefore, I was glad 
to seize this opportunity to see her alone,« — such an 
opportunity as I thought the lady indisposed to 
furnish me, 

I rang the bell, and the young woman soon met 
me in the parlor. I then felt some little embarrass- 
ment myself, for I had rushed .into this enterprise 
through an unexpected occurrence, and without 
much premeditation of the manner in which it 



UNKNOWN PRESENCE OF THE SPIRIT. 3G5 

would be most wise for me to proceed. I expected 
a cold reception, if not a repulse. I deemed her a 
very careless, volatile girl. I thought she would 
be unwilling to have me urge the claims of religion 
upon her ; and the idea that much depended upon 
the manner in which I should commence, embar- 
rassed me for a moment. But I soon came to the 
conclusion that I owed it to honesty and truth, to 
my own reputation for frankness, and to my young 
friend herself, to tell her plainly what was my in- 
tention in then calling to see her. I did so, in the 
most direct manner possible. 

"I am very glad to see you," said she. "I have 
wanted to see you for a good while ; for I want to 
tell you my feelings. I thank you for thinking of 
me, and being so kind as to come and see me* I 
should have gone to your house many a time, when 
you have so often invited persons like me ; but when 
the hour came, my courage always failed me, for I 
did not know what to say to you. I am in trouble 
and know not what to do ; I am very glad of this op- 
portunity." She opened to me her whole heart in 
the most frank and confiding manner. Among other 
things she said,' — • 

"I know I have been a thoughtless girl," (while 
her voice trembled, and tears dimmed her eyes,) " I 
have been gay and have done many things you 
would condemn, I suppose ; but, my dear minister, 



366 UNKNOWN PRESENCE OF THE SPIRIT. 

I have been urged into gaiety, when my heart was noi 
there. I do not believe I am such a girl as they 
think I am, may I say, as you think I am ? I know 
I have a wicked heart, and have too much forgotten 
God ; but I have often wondered what there is about 
one j that makes my religious friends think that I 

care for nothing but " She sprang from her 

seat, clasped her hands upon her face, and hurried 
out of the room, sobbing aloud. 

In a few moments she returned. " I know you 
will pardon me for this," said she, the tears still 
coursing down her cheeks, " I do not wish to make 
any excuse for my sins, nor do I wish to blame any 
one for supposing me thoughtless ; but I am sure 1 
want to be led in the right way, / am ready to do 
all you tell me. I hope I can be saved yet." 

" Certainly you can be, my child." 

" Then tell me, sir, what to do." 

I did tell her, and left her, one of the most grate- 
ful and affectionate creatures that ever lived. 

As I took my leave of her and found myself again 
in the street, I commenced my old business of street 
meditation. My first emotion was gladness, the se- 
cond shame : for I was ashamed of myself, that I 
had just been thinking of that young girl so differ- 
ently from what she deserved, and that I should 
have gone into her presence, and opened my lips to 
her with no more faith in God. The next reflection 



UNKNOWN PRESENCE OF THE SPIRIT. 367 

was, how much more common than we think, are 
the influences of the Holy Spirit. God does often 
what we never give Him credit for doing. The in- 
fluences of the Holy Spirit are more common than 
our unbelief allows us to think. 

The inquiry then came into my mind, may there 
not be others of my congregation w r ho would wel- 
come me also ? I stopped in my tracks, and looked 
around me for another house to enter. I saw one ; 
I rang the bell, and asked for the elder of two 
sisters, a girl of about nineteen I suppose, and re- 
puted to be very fond of gaiety. She soon met me, 
and I immediately told her why I had come. 

" And I thank you for coming," said she. " I am 
glad you have spoken to me about religion. Why 
did you not do it before ? I could not go to your 
house. I know it is my duty to seek Christ, and I 
do want to be a Christian." 

After some conversation with her, in the Avhole 
of which she was very frank, and in the course of 
which she became very solemn, I asked for her 
sister. 

" Yes sir, I will call her. I w^as going to ask you 
to see her ; but dorUt tell her anything about me" 

" Her sister came ; and as the elder one was 
about to leave the room, I begged the younger one's 
permission for her to remain, stating to her at the 
some time why I had asked to see her. She con- 



368 UNKNOWN PRESENCE OF THE SPIRIT. 

sented, and the elder sister remained, I thought, 
gladly. 

I then stated to the younger my message, and hay- 
ing explained her condition to her as a sinner, and 
explained the mercy of God through Jesus Christ, I 
was urging her to accept the proffered salvation, 
when she became much affected ; she turned pale, 
covered her face with her hands, — " I will try to 
seek God," said she sobbing aloud. The elder 
sister, who had delicately taken her seat behind her 
so as not to be seen by her, clasped her hands to- 
gether, overcome with her emotions, and lifted her 
eyes to heaven, while the tears of gladness coursed 
down her beautiful cheeks, as she sat in silence and 
listened to us. 

I prayed with them, and soon found myself again 
in the street. 

I immediately entered another house, in like man- 
ner, and for the same reason as before ; and another 
unconverted sinner met me with the same mingled 
gladness and anxiety, manifesting the same readi- 
ness to seek the Lord. 

By this time I had given up all thought of finish- 
ing a sermon which was to have been completed 
that day ; for if I could find, among my unconvert- 
ed parishioners, such instances of readiness and de- 
sire to see me, I thought my duty called me to leave 
my study and my sermons to take care of them 



UNKNOWN PRESENCE OF THE SPIRIT. 369 

selves, and to trust in God for the preparation I 
should be able to make for the pulpit on the coming 
Lord's day. I therefore went to another house, and 
inquired for another acquaintance, who was not a 
member of the church. I did not find her. But in 
the next house after thai, w r hich I entered, I found 
another of my young friends, who told me she never 
had paid any particular attention to the demands 
and offers of the gospel, but that she would " neglect 
it no longer;" — u I will, sir, attend to my salvation," 
said she, " as well as I know how." 

Here, then, I had found five young persons, in 
the course of a few hours, all of whom were " almost 
persuaded to be Christians." They all afterwards 
became the hopeful subjects of grace ; and within 
six months of that morning were received as mem- 
bers of the church. I knew them all intimately for 
years, prayerful, happy Christians. 

The strivings of the Holy Spirit are more common 
than we think. If unconverted sinners would im- 
prove these secret calls, none of them would be lost. 
These persons had been awakened before. Proba- 
bly at this time, as formerly, they would have gone 
back again to indifference, had not their seriousness 
been discovered and confirmed. It is important to 
1 watch for souls.' 



An aged woman, a member of my church, 
whom I frequently met, always appeared to me to 
have a more than common interest in the prosperity 
of religion ; and whenever I saw her she had some- 
thing to say in respect to the success of the gospel. 
Her heart appeared to be bound up in the welfare 
of the church. She would often inquire, " are any 
of our young people coming to Christ?" 

One day as I was passing her house she called 
me in. Says she, "I asked you to come in here 
because I wanted to tell you a Bevival is coming. 7 ' 

" How do you know that ?" said I. 

" We shall have a Eevival here," says she "be- 
fore another year is past." 

" How do you know that ?" said I. 

"Dear me," says she, "now don't think me one 
of that sort of folks, who think themselves particu- 
lar favorites of the Lord, as if they were inspired ; 
I'm none of that sort, by a great deal. But I have 
got faith, and I have got eyes and ears, and I believe 
in prayer. Perhaps you may think me too certain, 



A REVIVAL IS COMING. 3 1 1 

but I tell you a Kevival is coming; and I don't know 
it by any miracle either, or because I am any better 
than other people, or nearer to God. But, for this good 
while, every day when I have been out in my gar- 
den, I have heard that old deacon," (pointing to his 
house,) " at prayer up in his chamber, where he 
thinks nobody hears him. The window is open just 
a little way off from my garden, and I hear him 
praying there every day. He is not able to leave 
his house much you know, because he has got only 
one leg ; but if he can't work he can pray ; and his 
prayers will be answered. I am sure a Eevival is 
coming, and I should not be surprised if some of 
his children should be converted. I am not so fool- 
ish as to think I am a prophet, or to think I know 
the secrets of the Lord. I am none of your fanatics. 
But remember, I tell you a Eevival is coming. God 
answers prayer. You will see." 

A Eevival did come. Before a "year from that 
time more than a hundred persons in that congre- 
gation were led to indulge the hope, that they had 
been "born of the Spirit." Among them were a 
son and a daughter of that old man of prayer, and 
a grandson of this woman who " believed in prayer." 

There was no miracle or inspiration in this aged 
woman's confidence. She employed only faith, 
ana her own careful observation. u God answers 
prayer," says she ; and she had noticed that 



372 A REVIVAL IS COMING. 

earnest prayer was offered, such as had prevailed 
before. 

She was not so singular as she supposed. Others 
expressed the same confidence, and about the same 
time, and for a similar reason. One of them said to 
me, "I notice how they pray, at the prayer-meeting 
in the school-house up Bridge street, every Tuesday 
night." God does answer prayer. 

Much that is foolish, fanatical and wicked, has 
been preached and published about prayer for Ee- 
vivals, within the last twenty-five years. Men have 
maintained that the prayer of faith will produce a 
Eevival at any time, and in any place. And the 
prayers which have been offered on that principle 
have sometimes been shocking to contemplate; 
while the fanatical "Eevivals," (so-called,) which 
have followed them, have done inconceivable mis- 
chiefs. A spurious spirit has crept into the church, 
and spurious conversions have deceived many. Said 
a minister of no small notoriety to his congregation, 
" they accuse me of trying to get up a Eevival here, 
and I am going to get up a Eevival here, so help 
me my Maker." Horrible ! How unlike the gos- 
pel — how unlike the humble spirit of reliance and 
faith ! 



C|e 



a 



Ikdun %nalntinvi. 



As I was one day in familiar conversation with a 
man, who was a member of my church, and, as we 
all thought, was one of the most faithful and happy 
Christians among us ; he surprised me, by a half 
desponding expression about himself. On my in- 
quiring what he meant, he frankly told me what 
had been his experience, in respect to his comforts 
of hope. 

He said, that he entertained a hope in Christ, and 
united with the church, when he was a young man. 
He was now about fifty years of age, and still re- 
tained his hope. " I believe I am a Christian," said 
he, "but I am not the happy Christian that I once 
was." He then went on to tell me more particularly 
the history of his heart. He said, that for some 
time after he made a public profession of religion, 
his faith became more and more established, and his 
hope more fixed and clear ; till he finally arrived 
at a full assurance of his gracious state, and lived 
for some years in perfect peace, and commonly in 
the sweetest joy and delight. As these happy years 



374 THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

glided by, Lie never was troubled with a single doubt 
about bis piety, be bad no dark days, no discour- 
agements, not an bour's interruption of bis precious 
communion witb God. 

Several years bad passed away in tbis bappy 
manner, wben a melancholy change came over him. 
He recollected well the time, and remembered it 
with deep distress. He said, that he and several 
other members of the church, after some conversa- 
tion about the state and prospects of religion in the 
congregation, agreed to hold a meeting for confer- 
ence and prayer, in a familiar way. They held it. 
"It was a precious meeting," said he, "or, at least, 
it was so to me. My faith was strengthened, my 
joy was great." 

Just at this time, filled with gratitude and love on 
account of God's gracious goodness to him, he re- 
solved most solemnly that he " would be more 
faithful." " But," said he, with the deepest solem- 
nity and sadness, " I did not keep that resolution. 
And since that time, I have never been able to get 
back my former assurance and peace with God ! I 
have a hope, a strong hope, but my former peace is 
gone ! I have • prayed, and repented, and labored, 
to get near to God ; but I have never been able to 
rejoice in such happiness as I used to have !" 

In answer to my question, he replied, — 

" No, I am not conscious of any indulgence in sin, 



THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 375 

though I sin every hour ; nor do I know as I was 
unfaithful in any one thing in particular. I do not 
know why God frowns upon me so long; but I 
know I did not keep my resolution, and my enjoy- 
ment in religion is very much gone !" 

"Perhaps," said I, "you have sought enjoyment 
too much." 

11 1 thought of that years ago," said he, a and left 
off seeking for it, in any other way, than in serving 
God." 

"Perhaps you think too much of your service," 
said I, " and too little of the free grace of Christ." 

" I think not," he replied. " I never put my du- 
ties into the place of Christ, betwixt me and God." 

"Do you receive Christ as your ovm Saviour?" 

" I think so : if I did not, I should despair. I 
have hope in Christ ; but I live on, with a saddened 
heart. And now, whenever I find Christians re- 
joicing, I always want to caution them not to be 
unfaithful, as I have been." 

" Do you doubt the reality of your conversion to 
Christ?" 

" No, I have not that trouble ; but I have not 
such delights of peace and joy as I had once." 

" Do you expect ever to attain you* former hap- 
piness ?" 

" I trust, — I hope I shall not die without it, I 
could not die in any peace, as I am now !" 



376 THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

"Is not all this darkness yonr own fault? Do 
you believe it is God's will that you should go 
mourning all your days ?" 

" I know it is my own fault, the result of unfaith- 
fulness and broken resolutions ; but I do not know 
as I can now overcome the evil ; I have tried for 
years, but God keeps me in this state." 

I aimed to convince him that God did not "keep 
him " in it, but that he kept himself in it. Before I 
had finished what I intended to say to him, we were 
interrupted, and at that time as well as on several 
future occasions, he avoided saying anything to me 
about himself in the presence of other people. I 
afterwards asked him privately why he avoided the 
subject. He said he was afraid he should bring 
others into darkness, and injure the cause of re- 
ligion, if he spoke of his trouble. I had several 
conversations and arguments with him, but they 
seemed to be useless ; he would reply, " God keeps 
me in this darkness." I proved to him, both by 
Scripture and by argument, that God did not keep 
him in it, — that he kept himself in it. It might tire 
the reader, if I should record here the half of the 
conversations I held with him. Let the last one 
suffice. He replied to what I had just said to 
him, — 

u I think I have faith; and why do you say un- 
belief keeps me in darkness ?" 



THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 311 

u I believe, too, tliat yon have faitli ; but I be- 
lieve you fail to exercise it on a particular point, on 
which you have special need to exercise it." 

" What point do you mean ?" 

"Last Tuesday evening," I replied, "you at- 
tended the prayer-meeting in Bridge street. You 
offered the last prayer. I heard you. After I left 
another prayer-meeting, I came across that way, in- 
tending to make some brief remarks in your meet- 
ing, as I had just done in the other ; but when I 
got to the door, I heard your voice in prayer, (for 
the door was open,) and I did not go in. Just at 
the close of your prayer, I walked silently away in 
the dark. I wished to avoid saying anything to 
any one who heard that prayer. I believed that 
anything I could say would do more harm than 
good. Do you recollect how you prayed?" 

" No, not particularly." 

"Well, I will tell you. You prayed that the 
Lord would convince unconverted sinners, — that 
He is infinitely kind and gracious, willing and wait- 
ing to save them ; constantly calling to them, ' turn 
ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?' You prayed 
that they might be led to believe in God's willingness 
to accept them, to adopt them as His own children, 
and make them blessed in His love. You prayed 
that the Holy Ghost would lead them to a right 
understanding of the invitations and promises of 



378 THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

His word, so that they might know that l a way and 
a highway ' is opened to them into His full love and 
everlasting favor. You prayed that they might see 
and knovf, that if they were not happy in God's 
love, and in the hope of dwelling with Him forever 
in heaven, it was their own fault, because they 
would not believe in our blessed Lord, and Saviour 
Jesus Christ, and turn to Him. You prayed that 
anxious sinners might hear Jesus Christ saying unto 
them, 'come unto me all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' In this 
manner you prayed, and I have repeated some of 
your expressions exactly as you made them." 

"I recollect it now," said he. 

"Very well. Now what /mean by your not 
exercising faith on an important point is precisely 
what you meant in that prayer. You meant, that 
what God was waiting to give, they were not willing 
to receive ; that they did not believe in His mercy to 
sinners, through Christ, and did not come and ac- 
cept it freely, and without hesitation or fear. You 
meant that they might be happy and safe, if they 
would flee to Christ and trust Him ; and what 1 
mean is, that you prayed exactly right, and that 
you yourself ought to exercise the same faith and 
same freedom in coming to Christ, which you prayed 
that they might exercise. Precisely the same peace 
and joy in God which your prayer implied as offered 



THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. o79 

to them, is now positively offered to j-ou, and in 
precisely tlie same way. You ought to believe this. 
You ouglit to act upon it. ' And I am surprised, that 
while you can see ' the way, and a highway open' 
for them, you cannot with the same eyes see it open 
for you." 

" But," said he, "I am not like them. They have 
never sinned in the way I did. They have never 
known peace with God, and such enjoyments as I 
had once." 

"That may be true," said I, "but you make a 
distinction which God has not made. Nowhere in 
His word has He said anything to imply an unwill- 
ingness to be reconciled to backsliders, and to restore 
unto them the joys of His salvation ; or to imply 
that He is less willing and ready to fill them with 
peace, than He is to give peace to unconverted sin- 
ners who turn to Him." 

"But it seems to me," he replied, " a greater sin 
to forsake Him, after having once experienced His 
gracious love." 

"Let it seem so, then. I do not say it is not. 
But when you hesitate to believe in His readiness 
to forgive you, and smile on you as He used to do, 
I say that you l limit the Holy One of Israel, 7 as He 
has not limited Himself." 

" I know He freely invites unconverted sinners to 
come to Him. ' 



380 THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

"And do you notfknow, He invites backsliders just 
as freely ? How often He called upon the Israelites 
who had offended, and when they turned to Him 
restored to them His favor. Just so He treated 
David and Peter. Just so He has treated at times 
almost every Christian on earth. He performs what 
He has threatened and promised : — ' if they break 
my statutes and keep not my commandments, then 
will I visit their transgression with the rod, and their 
iniquity with stripes ; nevertheless, my loving kind- 
ness will I not utterly take from him, nor suffer my 
faithfulness to fail. My covenant will I not break, 
nor alter the thing that is gone out of my lips. 
Turn, Oh backsliding children, for I am married 
unto you.'" 

" I know it is so in general," he answered, " but 
are there not some sins that are exceptions ?" 

" No; what business have you to make exceptions 
when God has made none ? Suppose Sarah Parker 

had said to you, just after your prayer, l Mr. H , 

I know the way is open for sinners in general, but 
are there not some sins that are exceptions? 7 what 
would you have said to her ?" 

11 1 should have assured her that Christ gives a 
universal invitation to all sinners, without exception." 

" Well, give the same assurance to yourself. Will 
you direct others in a way in which you yourself 
have no confidence to proceed ?" 



THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 381 

" Others are not like me." 

" Are you better or worse?" 

" It seems to me I am a great deal worse." 

" What if Sarah Parker should say to you, 'it 
seems to me that I am a great deal worse ?' Her 
1 seems to me 7 would be as much in place as your 
* seems to me.' Neither of them proves anything. 
The question is not how ' it seems to you,' but how 
it seems to God — what He has said, and we are to 
believe ; what provision is made for us in Christ." 

" I wish I could see it as you do ; but, somehow 
or other, I cannot get out of my darkness, and don't 
know as I ever shall." 

" Perhaps not," said I; "but I assure you the 
spirit and efforts of self-righteousness will never help 
you out." 

" Do you think it is self -righteousness that keeps 
me in the dark ?" 

" Unquestionably" said I. 

" Then I should be glad if you would explain it 
to me, for I cannot see howP 

" Precisely as the self-righteousness of a convicted 
sinner keeps Mm in the dark, when he is 'going 
about to establish a righteousness of his own, and 
has not submitted himself to the righteousness of 
Christ.' He does not ' receive Christ and rest upon 
Him alone for salvation, as he is offered in the Gos- 
pel.' He tries to save himself. He tries to be 



382 THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

righteous enough to be saved; and if he cannot 
think himself to be so, he desponds and wanders in 
the dark, because he does not trust Jesus Christ. 
And though you trust Jesus Christ for eternal life, 
yet you limit your faith, so that you do not trust 
Him to make peace for you now ; to be your light, 
and hope, and joy, in reference to your unfaithful 
ness and broken resolution. That sin you make an 
exception. You do it in the spirit of self-righteous- 
ness ; and the evidence of this is found in the fact, 
that you think God keeps you in the dark, because 
your transgression was so bad. It is the darkness, 
then, of self-righteousness. On that one point, you 
have a self-righteous spirit, a spirit of legalism, to 
think of the extent of sin, and weigh it and measure 
it by Law, instead of exercising full faith in Christ, 
to be your peace with God." 

" It may be so," said he ; " but if it is, I am not 
sensible of it. It appears to me, that I am not look* 
ing for any righteousness in myself, to furnish 
ground for any confidence and peace with God." 

" You think so. But at the same time you men- 
tion your offense as a very bad one, and your case 
as c an exception/ which shows that you turn (on 
that point) from the Gospel to the Law, in the spirit 
of a self-righteous legalism. You do not, indeed, 
exult in self-righteousness, but you despond in self- 
righteousness. You do not appropriate Christ to 



THE BROKEN RESOLUTION 383 

yourself on that one point, and accept of peace 
through Him, and take confidence and comfort to 
your heart. But, on the contrary, just like an en- 
tire unbeliever, and in his spirit of legalism, (which 
is always self-righteousness,) you think of the mag- 
nitude of your offense, and thus fall into darkness 
and gloom. Instead of this, you ought to think of 
the magnitude of Christ, and accept Him alone as 
all and enough:'' 

All I could say to him furnished him no relief, 
He continued in much the same state as long as I 
knew him, one of the most faithful of believers, and 
yet one of the most sad. A pensive gloom, a deep, 
and settled, and heavy sadness, hung almost con- 
stantly over his soul, which all his faith and all his 
hope could not dispel ! His hope had lost its 
brightness, his faith its buoyancy ; indeed, both 
faith and hope seemed to have retired in a great 
measure from his heart, and lingered only around 
his mind. Melancholy state ! " God appears to me 
now," said he, "a great way off! I pray to Him 
from a distant land ; but he does not allow me to 
come near! Still I am always happy at prayer- 
meeting." 

I found it impossible to persuade him to feel that 
he might come near, if he would ; just as any other 
sinner might. He would reply,' — " My mind is con- 
vinced, but my heaH has not any of its old feelings 



384 THE BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

of freedom and nearness to God. But I mourn in 
silence. I don't wish others to know how I feel, lest 
it should injure the cause of religion !" 

This good man may have been mistaken in refer- 
ence to the primary cause of his loss of peace ; but 
the probability is, that he thought rightly. And it 
is probable, too, that many Christians have the dis- 
tressful feelings of outcast, and distant, and disin- 
herited children, by reason of their unfaithfulness, 
after their God and Father had given them peace. 
It is dangerous for a child of God to let his heart 
wander from home. Bitter, bitter are the tears of 
unfaithfulness. 



aalljat 



can I ft a? 



IN a pleasant interview with a young woman of 
my congregation, wlio had recently been led to a 
hope in Christ, she particularly desired me to see 
her brother. She had had some little conversa- 
tion with him, and thought he would be glad of 
an opportunity to speak with me, for he had some 
difficulties which she thought troubled him. I im- 
mediately requested the favor of seeing him, and in 
a few moments he came to me. Said I, — 

" I asked to see you, sir, because I wished to 
speak with you on the subject of religion. Have 
you been considering that subject much ?" 

" Yes sir, a good deal, lately." 

" And have you prayed about it much?" 

"I have prayed sometimes." 

" And have you renounced sin, and accepted the 
salvation which God offers you through Christ?" 

"No, I don't think I have." 

%l Don't you think you ought to ?" 

" Yes, if it was not for one thing I would." 



" What thing is that?" 



17 



386 WHAT CAK I DO. 

11 The doctrine of election." 
" How does that doctrine hinder jouT } 
" Why, if that doctrine is true, I can do nothing." 
" What can you do if it is not true ?" 
" Why, I don't know," said he, hesitatingly, " but 
what have I to do? /can do nothing. It is not 
my business to interfere with God's determinations ; 
if he has foreordained whatsoever comes to pass, 
as the Catechism says he has." 
" Well, do you think he has?" 
" Yes!" said he, (with an accent of much impa- 
tience.) 

I then tried very carefully to explain to him our 
duty, our freeedom of will, our accountability, God's 
gracious offers of both pardon and assistance ; and 
that God's secret foreordination is no rule of duty 
to us, and can be no hindrance to our clutv or salva- 
tion. As I thus went on in the mildest and most 
persuasive manner I could, his countenance changed, 
he appeared vexed and angry, and finally, in the 
most impudent and passionate manner, exclaimed, — 

" I don't want to hear any such stuff as that ! If 
God has foreordained whatsoever comes to pass, 
what have I to do ?" 

II Just what He tells you to do," said I. 

" I can do nothing" he replied furiously. 

"Did you eat your breakfast this morning, sir?" 

"Yes, to be sure I did!" 



WHAT CAN I DO. 387 

' i How could you do it, if God has foreordained 
whatsoever comes to pass? you can do nothing. 
Did you eat your dinner to-day ?" 

" Yes, to be sure ; I don't go without my dinner." 

" What did you eat your dinner for, if God has 
foreordained whatsoever comes to pass, as you say 
he has ? What have you to do ? You can do 
nothing. Do you mean to- go to bed to-night ?" 

"Yes; I shall try." 

"What will you l t?rf for? What have you to 
do? You can do nothing. If God foreordains 
whatsoever comes to pass, it is not your business to 
interfere with God's determinations. Will you 
answer me one question more ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why do you say 4 yes?' What have you to 
do ? You can do nothing. God has foreordained 
whatsoever comes to pass, and you have no business 
to interfere with his determinations." 

He appeared to be confused, if not convinced , 
and after a few more words, I asked him if he could 
tell me plainly what he himself meant, when he 
said he could do nothing. 

" iVb," said he, " I don't know what I mean.' 

" Can you explain to me how, in your view, the 
foreordination of God makes you incapable of doing 
anything, or hinders you ?" 



388 WHAT CAN I DO. 

He hesitated for some moments, and then answer- 
ed, — 

" No, Jam not able to tell anything about it." 
I then carefully explained to him his duty, his 
freedom of will, his accountability to God, and 
earnestly strove to persuade him to dismiss his cav- 
illings and come to immediate repentance, as God 
requires, and as a rebel against God ought to do, 
while mercy solicits him to salvation. He seemed 
to be somewhat affected ; and when I explained to 
him more fully that the foreordination of God did 
not take away his liberty, power, or accountability, 
he appeared to be convinced. I invited him to come 
to me, if he ever found any more trouble or hind- 
rance, or difficultv of mind, and tell me what it 
was. But he never came. He frequently muttered 
some objection to his sister, on the ground of pre- 
destination ; but he never afterwards introduced 
that subject in conversation with me. Yet I was 
not able to persuade him to be a Christian ; and 
now, after fifteen years more of his life have passed 
away, he still remains in his sins ; entirely neglect- 
ing all public worship, manifestly a hardened sinner. 

It is not safe for a sinner to trifle with Divine 
truth. The falsehood, insincerely uttered as an ex- 
cuse, comes to be believed as a truth. Sad state,— 
given over to believe a lie' 



|]Uii|jiffit a it tr %nm. 

A man about forty years of age, with whom I 
had previously but a slight acquaintance, called 
upon me one evening, in the greatest anxiety of 
mind. Seldom have I seen a man more agitated. 
He had become suddenly alarmed on account of his 
condition as a sinner. His feelings quite overcame 
him. He wept much. I answered his questions ; 
and urged him to repent and flee to Christ, now in 
the ' accepted time.' 

He was an intelligent, well-educated man, who 
had seen much of the world, and evidently had 
moved in good society. He conversed with much 
fluency and correctness, evidently possessing a quick 
and ready mind. His parents, as he told me, were 
communicants in a neighboring; church, and until 
about three weeks before he came to my house, he 
had been accustomed to attend church with them. 
He had a good degree of intellectual knowledge on 
the subject of religion. He was evidently a man of 
sound under standing;. 

He continued to call upon me frequently for some 



390 RELIGION AND RUM. 

months ; but he attained no peace of mind, — no hope 
in Christ. I was surprised at this. He appeared, 
from the first, so sincere, so earnest, attended all 
our religious services so punctually, and in all re- 
spects manifested so much determination, that I had 
confidently expected he would become a Christian 
indeed. And as he continued in much the same 
state of mind, I aimed to teach him the truth more 
carefully, and examine into his views, and feelings, 
and habits, in order to ascertain, if possible, and re- 
move the obstacles, (whatever they might be,) which 
kept him from yielding to the Holy Spirit. But 
I could not even conjecture, why a man, who ap- 
peared to know the truths of the gospel so well, and 
feel them so deeply, should not make some progress 
in his religious attempts. I noticed nothing pecu- 
liar or remarkable in him, unless it was some degree 
of fitfulness, and the ease and frequency of his tears. 
He wept more than I had been accustomed to see 
men of his years weep. 

I mentioned his case to one of the officers of the 
church, with whom I knew he was acquainted, and 
requested him to converse with him. He complied 
with this request. He had several conversations 
with him ; but he was disappointed and perplexed, 
as much as I had been. " He weeps," said he, "and 
that is pretty mu3h all that I can say about him." 

A few weeks after this, and while his tearful 



RELIGION AND RUM. 391 

seriousness continued, I saw him one day in such 
company, that the thought was suggested to my 
mind, whether he did not indulge himself in the use 
of intoxicating drink. I made inquiry about this, 
and found it was so. The next time he called upon 
me, I told him, as plainly as words could possibly ex- 
press it, that I had not a doubt, but his drinking 
was a device of the great adversary to keep him 
from salvation. He appeared to be surprised — did 
not deny drinking, but positively denied that he 
ever drank to any excess. I aimed to convince him, 
that any drinking at all of stimulating liquors was 
an excess for Mm. Again and again, I urged him 
to quit. He promised he would, but he did not. 
On one occasion he confessed to me, that he had re- 
sorted to brandy, in order " to sustain himself," as 
he expressed it, at times when his " mind was bur- 
dened and cast down with the thoughts of another 
world." I explained to him the folly, the danger, 
and wickedness of dealing with, his serious impress- 
ions in that way. He promised to do it no more. 
But he kept on, — he lost all regard for religion, — he 
forsook the church, — and now he is ten years nearer 
death, — an irreligious man, and probably an intem- 
perate man. 

Mr. jSTettleton once said to me, " if a hard-drinking 
man gets a hope, it will be likely to be a false hope." 



€\}t WLm% of a Compmmt, 

On" Monday, tlie day after the administration of 
the sacrament of tlie Lord's Supper, a young man 
of my congregation called upon me in great agita- 
tion of mind. He said he felt that he was " a great 
sinner," that he could " not bear to live in the con- 
dition he was in," that his " attention had been 
anxiously turned to the subject of salvation several 
times before, but he soon forgot it again," and he 
" was afraid it would be so now." Said he, " I have 
wanted to come and see you a good many times, 
but I never could make up my mind to do it till 
yesterday." 

I was not surprised to see him. The exercises 
of the communion Sabbath had been more solemn 
and joyful for the people of God, than any such ex- 
ercises that I have ever witnessed ; and as similar 
occasions of communion had often before been times 
of awakening for those who were not communicants, 
I had expected that the same things would be expe- 
rienced now. I told him this, and aimed to make 
him realize the solemnity of the fact, that the Holy 



THE WORD OF A COMPANION. 393 

Spirit was striving with him. I noticed in him two 
things, which particularly characterized his state of 
mind, — the depth of his convictions, and his fixed 
determination to turn unto God. 

As I was to leave home that day, and should not 
see him again for several weeks, I took the more 
care to teach him the gospel truths, and to impress 
them upon his mind. And because his attention 
had been arrested before, and he had gone back to 
indifference ; I aimed to convince him that his dan- 
ger lay on that very spot, and his only security was 
to be found in a full and instant determination to 
1 deny himself, and take up his cross and follow 
Jesus Christ.' 

He left me, and such was my impression of his 
fixed purpose, that I had little doubt or fear about 
the result. 

On my return home a few weeks afterwards, he 
immediately called upon me. He came to tell mo 
of his happy "hope in God through Jesus Christ 
my Saviour" as he emphatically expressed it. 

Some months afterwards he united with the 
church. But in making, at that time, a statement of 
the exercises of his mind at the period when he first 
came to see me ; he mentioned one thing which aston- 
ished, instructed and humbled me. After mentioning 
his anxieties, his sense of sin, and his interview "with 
myself, he added, "that day one of my companions 

14* 



394 THE WORD OF A COMPANION. 

spoke to me on the subject of religion. That deter- 
mined me." 

This was the turning point therefore. / thought 
he was " determined " before : he thought so : he 
appeared to be. Indeed I had never witnessed the 
appearance of a more full and fixed determination in 
any anxious inquirer, save one ; and it was the very 
thing which gave me such a confident expectation of 
his conversion. But I was greatly mistaken. His 
heart wavered and hesitated, and hung round the 
world, till one of his " companions spoke to him." 
That young companion was the successful preacher 
after all. Suppose that " companion" had not spoken 
to him; what would this young man have done? 
"We cannot tell ; but there is a high degree of proba- 
bility that he would have done just what he had so 
often done before, — would have quenched the Spirit 
and gone back to the world. Such companions are 
greatly needed. 

Salvation ought to be urged upon the will, the 
choice, the " determination " of sinners, up to the 
very point of their "receiving Christ and resting 
upon him alone for salvation, as he is offered in the 
gospel." Such an urgency is never out of place. 
The will is wanting, the determination is wanting, 
in every unconverted sinner, whether he believes it 
or not. The Bible has it right, — l choose ye this day 
whom ye will serve. ' 



Jaatntj} an& f rapr. 



ey 



The sixteenth day of March, in the year 1881, 
was observed, by the church, in which I was pastor, 
as a day of fasting and prayer. This appointment 
was made with special reference to the out-pouring 
of the Holy Spirit, — to seek, by united prayer, the 
revival of God's work in the midst of the congrega- 
tion. The meetings for prayer were held in the 
church, and a large portion of the members were 
present. 

The next week, as I was returning home from a 
religious meeting late in the evening, and had turned 
into an unfrequented cross-road, in order to shorten 
the distance I had to walk ; I was startled at the 
sudden sound of footsteps behind me, which seemed 
to be those of a man rapidly approaching me in the 
dark. I did not knovv r but some evil-minded person 
might intend to do me harm in that obscure place, 
and under cover of the impenetrable darkness of one 
of the darkest nights that I ever saw, I did not 
choose to ran : for, in that case, I should never know 



396 FASTING AND PRAYER. 

why I was so hotly pursued. I felt glad, that I had 
some corporeal strength ; and though I cannot say, 
that my courage very specially forsook me, yet J 
had no particular liking for a hostile attack and a 
tussle in the dark. As the footsteps so rapidly ap- 
proaching me appeared to be directly in my rear, 
like a lover of peace I crossed to the other side of 
the road ; and not preferring an attack in the rear, 
I stopped and faced about. My pursuer espied me, 
and, without slackening his pace, ran directly tow- 
ards me across the street, till, coming within ten 
feet of me, much out of breath, he called my name. 
" That is my name, sir," said I. He came close up 
to me, panting for breath, and stopped in silence. 
After a few heavy and rapid breathings, he spoke. 
He told me who he was, and why he had run after 
me. He was a young man of mj congregation, to 
whom I had never before spoken. I did not know 
him personally. He had just come from the school- 
house where I had been preaching ; and, not willing 
to be seen by his companions speaking to me, he 
had waited till they were out of the way, and then 
run after me, through the obscure street into which 
he had seen me turn. He wanted to see me, for he 
felt that he was u a sinner unreconciled to God, and 
in danger of hell," " What shall I do?" said he ; 
"I can't live so another week. Is there any way 
th&t such a one as /am can be saved?" 



F A STING AND PRAYER. 397 

I had a long conversation with him standing 
there in the dark, (for he did not choose to go home 
with me,) and I found, that his first impressions of 
any particular seriousness had commenced in the 
church, on the Fast-day, the week before. He was 
an apprentice in a mechanic's shop, where there 
were more than a dozen other irreligious young 
men. The master of the shop (not a professor of 
religion), told the whole of them, that if they wished 
to attend church on the Fast-day, they need not 
work. They accepted his proposal. And as he 
himself afterwards told me, thai was the reason why 
he went to church that day himself. He said, he 
" did not expect the boys would take his offer, but 
would prefer to stay at home and work;" and if 
they had done so, he should have done so too ; 
" but when they were all going to church," says he, 
"I was ashamed to stay at home." 

That young man, his employer, and almost the 
entire number of those young men in the shop, be- 
came communicants in the church before the close 
of that year. Thirteen persons were received into 
the church, whose seriousness commenced that day, 
in the church, while the people of God were praying 
for that very thing. 4 The Lord is with you while 
ye be with Him.' ' Before they call I will answer; 
and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.' 



I do not deem it a departure from the purpose or 
tlie title page of this publication, when I insert the 
following sketch, of experience, which I copy from 
a paper which lies before me. The author of it, a 
clergyman, is still living, and still exercises the 
functions of his Pastoral office. He here writes a 
little sketch of his own sad experience, which I am 
permitted to copy from his own hand- writing, though 
it was not designed for publication, being in a letter 
to a friend. As he has here explained how it was, 
that he rose out of the dark and turbid waters of 
despair, the explanation may be of some service to 
others, — as I know it has been to his friend. De- 
spair is opposed to faith, and every sinner on earth 
has the right to oppose faith to despair. 

The following is a part of the letter : 

" My dear friend, 

" You say. I am always happy, but you know 
little about me. I am not accustomed to obtrude 
my griefs upon others, for awakening a painful and 



god reigns: or, despair. 399 

useless sympathy ; and I have sadly learnt, that 
there may "be griefs utterly beyond the power of 
others to understand, and which, therefore, their 
sympathies cannot reach. But I have seasons (and 
they are not unfrequent), when my soul is cast down 
within me. I am sure / can sympathize with any 
and every trouble of your darkest hours. * * * 

1 i It is not a year since I found myself involved in 
all the horrors of darkness. I had hoped that such 
a season would never as;ain return upon me ; but it 

O J. / 

did. I had formerly learnt, that ill health, or rather 
nervousness in any state of health, has a great in- 
fluence in bringing on depressed feelings ; and at the 
period to which I now allude, I was fully conscious 
of mv nervous condition, and I recollected and re- 
fleeted upon its influence. But this did not help 
me out of my trouble. Day by day the darkness 
settled down upon my soul, deeper and deeper. I 
could see no light ! I was no Christian ! The 
Bible was a sealed book to me ; Christ was as a fiction, 
and salvation as a dream. Prayer was not so much 
of a mockery, as a lie, for I felt that I did not be- 
lieve w r hat my lips uttered, when they said they 
called upon Cod. I did not believe in God. I 
was a dark sceptic. I could realize nothing, but 
my own wretchedness; and in the depth of that 
wretchedness I cursed the day in which I was oorn ! 
Many and many a time I w r ished I never had been 



400 god reigns: or, despair. 

born, or had died when I first saw the light. Many 
and many a time I wished myself a dog, a horse, a 
stone, anything but myself. I could realize nothing, 
rest on nothing, believe nothing. 

" No pen can describe the horrors I endured. 
They were of every sort. I can only give you a 
few hints of them. 

" Blasphemous thoughts, not lawful to utter even 
here ; temptations which I may not name, — things 
that would freeze your blood,- — yea, things which 
made me feel that hell itself could be no worse, — 
w^ould be darted through the mind, without volition 
or control ! My poor soul was their sport. She 
had no power over them, not an item. She was 
tossed about, like a leaf in the storm, helpless, hope- 
less. At times, things would flash over my mind, 
like the flashes of the pit, as I thought ; for I could 
not account for them in any other way. It was as 
if Satan spoke to me, to jeer at me, and taunt me, 
and triumph over me in his malignity : — ' where is 
your God now ? what do you think of prayer now V 
These ideas would come with such suddenness and 
vividness, so involuntary, so surprising to myself, 
that I could not believe them the production of my 
own mind ; it must be that Satan was permitted to 
buffet me, and expend all his malice upon me, giving 
me a foretaste of hell. 

" In my agony I used to roll upon the floor of 



god reigns: or, despair. 401 

my study, hour after hour, in despair, thinking it a 
sin, a shame, an impossibility for me to make 
another sermon. I knew I was not fit to preach. I 
thought I should be only acting a part, only playing 
the hypocrite knowingly. I would have relinquished 
the ministry if I could. But what could I do ? I 
must preach. And after I had put it off as long as 
I could, and had scarcely time enough left to pre- 
p*are for the Sabbath, I used to get my texts, and 
enter upon the composition of my sermons, feeling 
that I was the most miserable and most unworthy 
being on this side of the pit, and that I should soon 
be in it. "When I got engaged oyer my sermons, I 
used to forget myself; and then, as my thoughts 
were occupied with the truth of God, I would be- 
come interested in the study, and get along pretty 
well till Sunday was over. I would preach like an 
apostle, and go home in despair ! I tried every 
device, but no relief came. 

" I went to a distinguished clergyman, and told 
him my case. He was kind to me. He said some 
wise things to me. But he began to say to me, that 
God was disciplining me, to prepare me for some 
greater usefulness : l Stop ! sir,' said I. ' I cannot 
receive that ! — I can't ! I can't ! It does not belong 
to me. I thought of that, but my conscience re- 
jected it as a snare of the devil, to keep me at 
peace in my sins I told him I knew better ; I was 



402 god reigns: or, despair. 

afraid, and had good reason to be afraid, that I 
never had any religion ; — I could not live so, and 
certainly I could not die so. I told him that I could 
comfort others, and lift them out of such troubles as 
seemed to resemble mine,— had done it, — was skilled 
in doing it, — if nothing else, I could beguile them 
out of their despair, without their knowing how I 
did it; but I could not comfort myself; my case 
was different, and I could not receive the same 
truths I preached to them. The ideas and promises 
which cheered them could not cheer me. I told 
him I had often thought myself like the man of 
gloom, who applied in his despair to some friend, 
perhaps minister, and his friend said to him, ' divert 
your thoughts, — take exercise, amusement, — go to 
hear Carlini play,' (a famous harlequin, attracting 
crowds at the time.) ' Alas ! sir,' said he, in de- 
spair, i I am Carlini myself!' And so was I. I 
went home in despair, weeping along the street as 
I went. 

" While I was in just this state, perplexed, agi- 
tated, tormented night and day, fearing and half 
expecting I should become a maniac, I had occasion 
to take a woman to the mad-house. (She would go 
with me, — her friends could not manage her.) As 
I rode along v/ith her in the carriage, and conversed 
with her, I felt in my soul that 2" was more fit for 
the mad-house than she! I left her there. As I 



god reigns: or, despair. 403 

came out, I looked around upon the grounds, the 
trees, the sky, and knew nothing, and doubted 
everything, and thought of myself, my torment of 
soul became intolerable ! It was with difficulty 
that I could restrain myself from screaming out in 
my agony ! I got into the carriage to go home. 
The young man who was with me made some at- 
tempts at conversation, but I could not attend to 
him ; and finding my answers incoherent, I suppose, 
or finding me mute, he looked at me with astonish- 
ment, and afterwards left me to myself. 

" We rode on. I could realize nothing — believe 
nothing. I did not believe there was a God ! I 
felt that I was sinking down into the madness of 
despair ! a forlorn, hopeless, eternal wreck ! a wretch 
too wicked to live, and not fit to die ! 

"By-and-bye my mind began to question and 
reason. I am— that is certain. These are trees — 
that is a river — yonder is the sun. All these things 
are certain. But where did they come from ? They 
did not make themselves, /did not make myself. 
There is dependence here. They do not govern them- 
selves. There is order here. The sun keeps his 
place, and is now hiding himself in his west in due 
time. ' There is a God ! Yes, there is a God V 
That was the first gleam of light. I held on to that 
idea ; { there is a God, there is a God, there is a God P 
I kept affirming it in my mind. I felt I had got 



404 god reigns: or, despair. 

hold of one certainty, and I would not let it go. I 
could believe one thing. 

" In a moment, (for these ideas flashed through my 
mind like flashes of lightning,) I got hold of another 
idea, another certainty, and then linked the two cer- 
tainties together. It was order, dominion. God has 
dominion. Yes, He rules. ' God reigns P said I. 
It was an ocean of light to me ! It flooded the uni- 
verse ! * God reigns ! God reigns ! God reigns P I 
kept repeating these two words mentally, ' God 
reigns ! God reigns P It was triumph to me. It 
was glory. I almost leaped from the carriage. I 
groaned aloud under the burden of my jo}^ (The 
young man started up and gazed at me. I did not 
notice him.) I held on to the idea. ' God reigns P 
said I. I dared not let it go ; J God reigns P I 
dared not let any other idea enter my mind ; ' God 
reigns ! God reigns ! God reigns P said my exulting 
soul. 

" Then came a contest within me, — a conflict like 
the clash between thousands of opposing sabres ! I 
felt the full power of my idea, if I could but hold 
it ; but the assaults that were made upon it came 
like the shock of battle ! One thought after another 
seemed to heave over my soul, like the waves, to 
dash me from my rock ! You are a lost sinner ; 
vile — a wretch ! L God reigns P said my soul. You 
are a hypocrite ! ' God reigns P said my soul. You 



god reigns: or, despair. 405 

are a fool! 'God reigns P You are a madman! 
'God reigns P You are mad, for no sane mind ever 
acted in this way ! 'God reigns P I am certain of 
thai — l God reigns P Wo to you if He does ! 'God 
reigns P What do you know about God? i God 
-eigns P You are a sceptic, an infidel ! ' God 
leignsP God has abandoned you ! 'God reigns P 
You are moved this moment by the power of the 
Devil ! ' God reigns P said my exulting soul. 

" Thus one temptation after another dashed upon 
me, and all I could do was to hold on to my rock. 
'God reigns P At one moment I trembled, as an 
onset was made upon me ; the next moment I 
triumphed, as the onsfet was hurled back by the 
power of the one certainty I wielded. I w r as sinking, 
amid the dark surges that dashed over me. In an 
instant I was above them all — governed them all — 
and could have governed a thousand such oceans # 
because ' God reigns P I opposed that shield to every 
wave of midnight — -to every shock of scepticism — 
to every i fiery dart,' that Satan hurled at me. I 
held it up, and defied despair and the Devil. I turn- 
ed it in every direction, upon every foe, every fear, 
every doubt; 'God Eeigns !' and I wished to know 
nothing else. 

%i I came home holding these two words over my 
poor soul, now settled, soothed down to perfect 
peace — calm, happy. I did not wan 1 to think any< 



406 god reigns: or, despair. 

thing, know anything, care for anj^thing : * God 
reigns V and that is enough. 

u Gradually I got hold of other truths, and em- 
ployed them, I hope, in faith ; but for many days I 
needed nothing to fill my soul with delight, but that 
glorious idea, ' God reigns P ■ God reigns P It saved 
me from being a maniac. 

" This is but a very imperfect glance at one of my 
dark seasons. It can give you only a partial idea of 
them. No pen can ever describe them, and no imagi- 
nation conceive of their horrors, unless the positive 
experiences of despair have been such as to make 
imagination ashamed of its feebleness. 

"I do not wish the return of such seasons. They 
may, indeed, have been of some use to me, as my 
wiser friend suggested ; but I do not like such dis- 
cipline ; I do not wish to learn the power of faith, 
by being scorched by the blaze of hell. 

" Never can I even recollect those dark trials, 
without being overcome with emotion. I wish I 
could forget them. But they are burnt upon my 
memory, and I have not been able to write this 
without many tears. Glod grant you may not be 
able to understand me now, or at any time here- 
after. But if you ever should come into such 
depths, I know of but one way to get out : — faith, 
faith, faith. You must not try to get out. You 
must let God take you out k You can do nothing for 



god reigns: or, despair. 407 

yourself. You might as well breast tlie clash, of tlie 
ocean, or brave tlie thunder of heaven. You must 
let God ' hide you in the cleft of the rock, and cover 
you with His hand [' You must just exercise a 
passive faith ,— -much more difficult than an active 
one. At least /have found no other waj r . Reason 
with such feelings? — reason with a whirlwind a3 
soon, — with a tempest, — with the maddened ocean I 
You cannot reason with them. They will take you 
up, and dash you about like the veriest mite in 
the universe. Look ; — do nothing but look. God 
reigns. Jesus Christ is King. Leave all to Him : 
—it is Faith." 

It was a bright doctrine, to which this minister 
clung in the time of his trouble* It is a great truth, 
"God reigns," and, therefore, 'grace reigns through 
righteousness unto eternal life, by Jesus Christ our 
Lord;' and, therefore, no sinner on earth need ever 
despair. 



Cfj£ fast ticttr. 



One of the most distressing instances of religious 
darkness and despondency, that I have ever been 
called to witness, was that of a poor girl, whom I 
first knew when I was called upon to visit her in 
her last sickness. She was not twenty years old, her 
health had departed, she seemed to be doomed to 
an early grave. A seated pulmonary affection de- 
prived her of all hope of recovery, and she had no 
hope in God. From her earliest childhood she had 
had excellent religious instruction. Her parents 
were pious people, and though they were poor, they 
had carefully educated her. She had been a scholar 
in the Sabbath school from her childhood, under the 
weekly instructions of a teacher who loved her, and 
who had taught her with assiduity, kindness, and 
skill. But though she had been long the subject of 
religious impressions, and had carefully studied her 
Bible, and earnestly prayed to be directed into the 
path of life, she had never found peace with God. 

When I first knew her, none but herself had any 
special fears that her life was near its end. She 



THE LAST HOUR. 409 

was then able to be about the house, and sometimes, 
in pleasant weather, to walk out into the fields. 
But she had given up all expectation that she should 
recover, and she now addressed herself to the work 
of preparation for death, to which she looked for- 
ward with an indescribable anguish. She regarded 
it as the commencement of eternal woe. 

At first I felt no peculiar discouragement, on ac- 
count of her religious depression. I regarded her 
fearful distress of mind, as only the natural accom- 
paniment of a just conviction of sin, and confidently 
expected that she would soon be led to hope and 
peace in believing. But it was far otherwise with 
her. She attained no peace. As week passed after 
week, she continued in the same despondency, re- 
ceiving no light, no hope, no comfort. She read, 
she examined, she wept, she prayed in vain. And 
as her health declined more and more, her mind be- 
came wrought up to an intensity of anguish most 
distressful to witness. It was enough to melt any 
one's heart, to hear her cries for mercy. Never did 
a sinner plead more earnestly to be delivered from 
going down to perdition. She cried for mercy, as 
if standing in the very sight of hell ! She had not 
a single gleam of light. Her soul was dark as a 
double midnight, and seemed plunged into an ocean 
of horrors. No one, I am sure, could have listened 
to her dreadful wailings, without feeling a sympathy 

18 



410 THE LAST HOUR. 

with her, which would have wrung the heart, with 
anguish. 

I visited her often, conversed with her many 
times, taught her most carefully all the truths of the 
Bible, which I supposed could possibly have any 
tendency to awaken her faith in Christ, and prepare 
her to meet Him ; but I never had any evidence to 
the last, that anything I ever said to her was the 
means of any benefit. 

I wondered at her continued despair. It seemed 
to be the more remarkable, on account of the clear 
views which she appeared to have, of the character 
of God, of His holy law, of her condemnation by 
it, of her wicked heart, of redemption by Christ, and 
of the faithfulness of God to fulfil all his promises. 
I often examined her thoughts and feelings on all 
such points as well as I could, in order to detect any 
error into which she might have fallen, and which 
might be a hindrance to her faith and peace, and in 
order to persuade her to imst all her eternal interests 
to the grace of the great Eedeemer. She had not 
a doubt about any of these truths. She knew and 
bewailed her guiltiness and depravity, she fully be- 
lieved in the love of God towards sinners, and the 
willingness of Christ to save her, unworthy as she 
was ; she said she hated sin with all her heart ; she 
longed to be holy ; she did not bolieve that she 
hated God, though she would not say that she loved 



THE LAST HOUR. 411 

Him ; she admired " the kindness and love of God our 
Saviour " towards sinners ; and wanted, above all 
things, to have an interest in His redemption, and 
be sure that He had accepted her. 

Months before her death I believed that she was 
a child of God. I thought I could discover every 
evidence of it, except hope, and peace, and the spirit 
of adoption. She had now come to believe that she 
had some love to God ; " but," says she, "lam afraid 
God does not love me, and will cast me off forever, 
as I deserve." 

I strove, in every possible manner, and time affcei 
time, to lead her to the peace of faith. By holding 
directly before her mind the character of God, the 
redeeming kindness and work of Christ, and especi* 
ally God's free invitations and firm promises; I 
strove to lead her to an appropriating faith, which 
should beguile her into a half-forgetfulness of her- 
self, by causing her to delight in God. By teaching 
her according to the Scriptures what are the evi- 
dences of a new heart, and then by taking her own 
declarations to demonstrate to her that her own ex- 
ercises of mind and heart were precisely these evi- 
dences ; I labored hard to induce her mind to rest 
upon the " witness within," — a witness really there 
(as I believed), if she would only hear and heed its 
voice. I explained to her what I honestly supposed 
to be the cause of her darkness, that is, her bodily 



412 THE LAST HOUR. 

condition, which prevented her seeing tilings as 
tliey were, by throwing a deceptive and dismal 
cloud over everything that pertained to herself. At 
times, when she appeared to me to be coming out of 
her gloom, and to be standing on the very borders of a 
light which she could not but see ; a single recurring 
idea about herself would fling her back into all her 
darkness, and she would w r eep and wail in despair. 

I had been describing heaven to her, and refer- 
ring to its song of redemption, ' who loved us, and 
washed us from our sins in his own blood,' — 

" Others will be in heaven," said she, "but /shall 
be cast out ! From the distant region of my doom, 
I shall behold my companions by the river of life, 
happy, happy spirits, perhaps I shall hear their 
song ; but no such home for me /" 

"How came they there?" said I. " They were 
not saved by their goodness. They were no better 
than you. Jesus Christ saved them by his blood, 
and he offers to save you. 7 ' 

" He passes me by, sir. He called them, and they 
obeyed the call in due time ; but he does not call 
me!" 

" He does, my child, He does. He -calls you now, 
{ Come unto me.' " 

" If He does, sir, I have no heart to hear Him ! 
My day is past ! my day is past ! I shall be cast 
off as I deserve ! Oh, I wish I had never been born I" 



THE LAST HOUR. 413 

" Your day is not past. L Now is the day of 
salvation. 7 " 

Her only answer was tears and groans. 

Such was her melancholy condition, as she de- 
clined more and more. Her strength was now 
almost gone. She evidently had but few weeks to 
live, if indeed a few days even remained to be meas- 
ured by the falling sands of her life. 

One day, (some weeks before her death,) after I 
had been stating to her the evidences of a regener- 
ated state, and she had clearly described to me her 
own views and feelings, which seemed to me to 
accord with these evidences in one particular after 
another almost throughout the entire chapter ; I 
said to her, with some earnestness, — 

" Mary Ann, what do you want more, to convince 
you that you are a child of God ? What do you 
expect ? If these things do not convince you, what 
could ? What evidence more do you want ? Do 
you want an angel to come down from heaven here 
to your bedside, to tell you that you are a Chris- 
tian, and shall go to heaven as soon as you die ?" 

" Oh, 3 7 es," said she, in a transport of emotion, 
clasping her death-pale hands, " that is just what 1 
want — -just what I vjant" 

1 ' That is just what you cannot have," said I; 
" God is not going to give you any such kind of 
evidence," 



414 THE LAST HOUR, 

I then explained to her, how she must rest ujoon 
spiritual evidences, as all Christians do, and not on 
any evidence of the senses, or supernatural occur- 
rence outside of her own heart. 

As she approached fast her end, and evidently 
could not survive much longer ; I was greatly dis- 
appointed and saddened, that her mind continued 
in the same unbroken gloom. I had not expected 
it. I had looked for a different experience. But it 
now seemed that her sun must go down in clouds ! 

One Sabbath morning, just before the time of 
public service, I was sent for to " see her die." 
She could still speak, in a very clear and intelli- 
gible manner, better than for weeks before. Her 
reason was continued to her, all her faculties ap- 
peared as unimpaired and bright as ever. All that 
I could discover of any alteration in her mind, ap- 
peared to me to consist simply in this, — she now 
thought of herself less, and of her Grod and Saviour 
more. I told her, as I was requested to do, that 
she was now very soon to die. The bell was tolling 
for me to go to the pulpit, and, having prayed with 
her, commending her to her God, I gave her my 
hand to bid her farewell. " Will you come to see 
me at noon ?" says she. 

"My dear child, you cannot live till noon. The 
Doctor says you cannot live half an hour. I will 
come here as soon as I leave the church." 



THE LAST HOUR. 415 

I went to the church and preached ; and as soon 
as the service closed, I went immediately to her 
house. She was still alive. One of her friends met 
me at the door, and hastily told me, that soon after 
I left the house, an hour and a half before, she 
avowed her perfect trust in Christ, and her firm con- 
fidence that He would "take her home to heaven." 
" I am fall of peace," said she, " I can trust my 
God. This is enough. I am happy, happy. I die 
happy." A little while after, she said she wanted to 
see me " once more." She was told I was in church, 
and that she could not live till the sermon was 
closed. u I shall live" said she firmly. She seemed 
to refuse to die. She inquired what time the service 
would close, and being told, she often afterwards 
inquired what time it was. She watched the hands 
of the clock, frequently turning her eyes upon them, 
in the intervals between her prayers and praises and 
rapturous thanksgivings. As I entered the room 
she turned her eyes upon me; "Oh," says she, "I 
am glad you have come ; I have been waiting for 
you. I wanted to see you once more, and tell you 
how happy I am. I have found out that a poor 
sinner has nothing to do only to believe. I am not 
afraid of death now. I am willing to die. God has 
forgiven me, and I die happy, — I am very happy. 
1 wanted to tell you this. I thought I should live 
long enough to tell you. I thought God would 



416 THE LAST HOUR. 

not let me die till I had seen you, and told you of 
my joy, so as not to have you discouraged when you 
meet with other persons who have such dark minds 
as mine was. Tell them to seek the Saviour. Light 
will come some time, if it is at the last hour. I 
prayed God to let me see you once more. He has 
granted my last prayer ; and now — now I am ready. " 
Her voice faltered ; she could say no more. I 
praj-ed some two or three minutes by her bedside ; 
we rose from our knees, and in less than five minutes 
more she was dead. ' Blessed are the dead that die 
in the Lord.' 

It was pleasant to hear this dying girl affirm her 
faith, and to witness her joy at the moment of 
death. But I do not know that this joy amounted 
to any more real evidence of her effectual calling to 
Christ by the Holy Spirit than she had presented 
before. Faith is one thing, and feeling is another. 
It is the faith that saves. It is the feeling that com- 
forts. But the faith may exist where the feeling is 
wanting. The principle may exist where its action 
is wanting. 

If this poor girl had died in all her darkness and 
fears, I should not have despaired of her. Amid 
all her glooms of guilt, I thought she exhibited 
proofs of faith. It seemed to me that it was faith, 
which made her attend to the truths of the Bible, 



THE LAST HOUR. 417 

with such, careful scrutiny and enduring persever- 
ance, at the very moment when she saw no light in 
it for her : — that it was faith, which made her pray 
so fervently and without faltering, month after 
month, at the very time when she did not suppose 
she received any answer ; — that it was faith, which 
kept her, in her most gloomy times, perfectly free 
from any besetting doubt that there is salvation for 
sinners in Jesus Christ, freely offered to them in the 
love of God ; — that it was faith, which made her so 
perfectly assured that peace with God is attainable, 
and made her long for it as the only thing she cared 
for ; — yea, that it was faith, which gave to her very 
glooms their most terrible aspect, creating such a 
confident and continued conviction that if Christ 
was not found, everything was lost. Her grief was 
not that of an alien and an enemy, but that of an 
affectionate, but disinherited child. The very point 
of her anguish consisted in this, — namely, that she 
believed Christ to be a full and free Saviour, and 
yet could find no evidence in her heart that she 
trusted in Him. The promises were precious things 
in her heart's estimation, but they seemed to her to 
be precious things which she did not embrace. She 
distrusted herself, but not God. She was afraid to 
believe that she was a believer. She was so trem- 
blingly afraid of getting wrong, that she dared not 
think she could possibly be right. On this ground, 



418 THE LAST HOUR. 

I was led to believe that Mary Ann was a child of 
God, long before that memorable light shone on her 
soul in the hour of death. She was in darkness, 
not because she had no faith, but because she did 
not believe she had an} r . She had a title to heaven, 
without having eyes to read it. 

Her mother, father, and physician, (who was a 
pious man), all her friends, as I suppose, regarded 
this bright close of her earthly experience very dif- 
ferently from myself. They appeared to look upon 
it as the commencement of her faith, thinking that 
God had first appeared for her in that time of her 
first triumph and joy. Such an idea in similar 
cases, I suppose, to be common, and I suppose it to 
be an error, and a very misleading one, especially 
to many unconverted sinners. Such unconverted 
sinners hear of instances like this, and, therefore, 
hope that it may be just so with themselves, when 
they shall be called to die. On the ground of this 
hope, they speak a deceitful peace to their own 
hearts, without any definite, determined, and prayer- 
ful efforts to prepare for death, — just leaving it to 
that coming hour itself to bring along with it the 
preparation they need. Their secret thought is, — 
such a one, who always lived without religion, died 
in peace at last, and why should not I ? Delusive 
thought, and often fatal ! These persons never stop 
to inquire what had been the previous heartrhistory, 



THE LAST HOUR. 419 

the struggles, and prayers of those, whose peaceful 
death they mention. They themselves are not living 
such a life as their now departed acquaintance did, 
who died in peace; and, therefore, they have no 
good reason to think they shall die such a death 
Too hastily they say of such a one, "he lived all 
his life without religion." They say what they do 
not know, and what probably is false. If any one 
would hope to die like Mary Ann, let him live like 
Mary Ann. Her supreme aim, and her agonizing 
prayer for months, sought the favor of God. To 
gain this, she omitted nothing which she deemed a 
duty, — she deferred nothing to a future hour. To 
gain this was all her desire, and no discouragement 
could make her falter, or turn her aside. l Go 
thou and do likewise/ if thou wouldst die like 
Mary Ann. 



Cjie §almt of feito* 

Sixteen years after the death of Mary Ann (men- 
tioned in the preceding sketch), I was summoned to 
the sick-bed of her sister. She was a younger sister, 
whom I had never seen since she was a mere child, 
and of whose religious character I had no knowledge. 
She had married ; and after many trying changes, 
she was now in the city of New York.. A kind lady, 
one of my ovra friends who resided in that city, and 
who had formerly known something of her family 
in another State, had accidentally heard of her ill- 
ness, had called upon her, and now did me the fa- 
vor to bring me the sick woman's request, that I 
" would go and see her." She told me I should find 
her in a very destitute condition, very much unbe- 
friended and alone, though she had herself done 
something for her, to make her a little more comfort- 
able. I received this message in the evening, and 
early the next morning I made my way to the house, 
to which she had directed me. 

I found the sick woman in a boarding-house, 
among strangers, where nobody knew her except 



THE DA W X F II E A V E X . 421 

.her husband, and manifestly nobody cared for her. 
She was in the garret, in a little room close under 
the roof of the house. The scanty furniture and the 
whole appearance of the room, showed me, at a 
glance, how unenviable was her condition. There 
was but one chair in the room, and this was used 
for a table (the only one she had), on which were 
placed some vials of medicine, a tea-cup and a saucer, 
which constituted all the furniture of the room, ex- 
cept her humble bed. But all was neat and clean. 
If there was scantiness, there was decency. 

As I entered the room, I perceived at once her 
hopeless condition. She was emaciated, pale, tor- 
mented with a hollow cough, unable to speak but 
in a whisper, and her cheek was flushed with that 
round spot of peculiar red, with which I had be- 
come too familiar to mistake it for anything else 
than the fatal signal. I approached the bed on 
which she was lying, told her who I was, and offer- 
ed her my hand. 

"I am very happy — to see you," said she (speak- 
ing with effort and only in a whisper, and compell- 
ed to pause at almost every word). " I did not sup- 
pose — you would remember me — at all, — and for a 
Long time — I could not have courage — to send — for 
you, — or — let you know — that I was here. But I 
remembered — you visited — my sister, — Mary Ann, 



422 THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 

— wlien she died, — and I had — a great desire to — 
see you." 

"lam very glad," said I, " to be able to see you ; 
but I am sorry to find you so ill. I wish I had 
known that you -were here, sooner." 

11 You are — very kind, sir ; — but I was — afraid to 
trouble you. I have- — not seen you — before, — since 
I was — a little child ; — and I supposed — you had — 
forgotten, that — there was such a person. I am 
very thankful to you — for being so kind — as to 
come — to see me." 

" Have you been sick long?" 

"Yes sir, — a good many — months. I have lately 
— been growing- — much worse, — and I want now — 
to get home — to my mother, — this week, — if I can. 
I think — I should be better there — for a little while, 
■ — though I cannot tell." 

"Do you think you are well enough to go 
home?" 

" I hope — I could go — in the boat — and live to get 
there. The hottest— of the summer — is coming on 
soon — and our place here — is very uncomfortable ; 
but — most of all — I want to see — my mother,— once 
more — before I die." And the big tears rolled fast 
over her fevered cheeks. 

" I hope," said I, "you may be ablfe to see her; 
but you do not seem to have much strength just 
now." 



THE DAWN OF HEAVEN 423 

" Indeed, sir, — my strength — is — all gone. I can- 
not — stand on my feet — any longer. Before I be- 
came — so weak — I used to work with my needle — 
and help my husband— earn something ;— and then, 
we had — a more comfortable place. But I can do 
nothing — now-— and so we came— to this— garret— 
to save rent." 

" Have you much pain?" 

" Yes sir — I am in — great pain now, — the most— 
of the time." 

" Do you expect ever to get well ?" 

" Oh, no sir, — I shall— never get well. I know I 
am— to die — before long ; — the consumption — is — a 
hopeless disease. This painful cough — will soon 
end— my days." 

" Are you afraid to die ?" 

" Oh, no sir," said she with a smile, " Jesus— is 
my hope. He — will save me." 

" Trust Him," said I, u you trust eternal rock. 
He has promised,"— 

Interrupting me, she replied,' — 

"What can — anybody want — more than the 
'promises? It seems to me — the promises — are 
enough— for everybody; — so sweet — they are so full. 
Why, God — has promised — to make— an everlasting 
covenant — with us — poor sinners !" And tears of 
joy coursed down her smiling face. 

I conversed with her as long as I thought it best 



424 THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 

for her. All her conversation was in the same 
happy strain. She appeared very much exhausted, 
and I had little hope that her desire to "see her 
mother once more," would ever be gratified. Indeed 
I did not think she would live till sun-set. I prayed 
with her, and promising to call again in the after- 
noon, I left her. 

Some little arrangements were made for her com- 
fort, and in the afternoon I called there again. She 
was evidently worse, but her joy was full. Said 
she,' — 

" I bless my God — for all my pain — for the disap- 
pointments — of my past life, — and the strange — 
strange way — in which — he has — led me on. I have 
had trials — many trials. My husband — did not pros- 
per — as — he hoped — to do, — and sometimes — we 
have been — in distress. But — my trials have — done 
me good. Now we have few wants. — You know I 
cannot — eat anything now, — and I hope — his wages 
— will keep him — from suffering. I came — to this 
— little room — when I — could not work — any long- 
er, — on purpose to relieve him. The rent — is 
cheaper — here- — in this — little garret, — and I want 
to be — as little burdensome — to him — as possible. 
I used to think — when I first made a profession — 
of religion — trials would — overcome me ; — but God 
makes me happy — in them. I find— if one — is not 
worldly — trials are easy — to bear ; — and if— we look 



THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 425 

towards God — and heaven — they are — nothing at 
all — but mercies." 

" And does your husband feel as you do ? Is he 
a pious man ?" 

She turned her languid head upon her pillow, 
glancing around the room, to see if the nurse who 
had been procured for her, had left the room, and 
perceiving she was not there, said she, — 

11 I suppose— I may speak— freely— to you— about 
my husband,— since— we are alone. He is not — 
religious, — and that is the trouble' — -of my heart." 

She could say no more : she wept and sobbed 
aloud. After a little time, becoming more com- 
posed, evidently struggling to suppress her emotions, 
she continued, — 

" I must leave that— I can't— speak— of him. Oh, 
it seems to me — >as if the careless, who neglect— sal- 
vation, — have never— read — God's promises. If 
they had— and knew— what they meant— they could 
not— help trusting — -them. I am happier now— 
than ever — I was before. It is sweet to— suffer — ■ 
this pain,— when Christ— puts such delights— into 
my soul." 

She was now stronger than I had expected to find 
her. I prayed with her, and promising to see her 
again the next day, I left her. 

I was prevented from calling to see her the next 
morning, as I had intended ; and when I called in 



426 THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 

the afternoon, I perceived lier end was very fast ap- 
proaching. Her countenance was changed, hei 
pulse more feeble and fluttering, her voice was now 
perfectly restored, and she could speak with strong, 
clear articulation . She mentioned her recovered voice 
as an instance of God's goodness to her, and both 
she and her husband took it as an evidence that she 
might live to reach her home. To me it was only an 
evidence to the contrary. She did not appear to be 
at all aware how near she was to death, and still en- 
tertained the hope of starting the next day, "to go 
home to her mother." I felt very reluctant to crush 
that hope ; but I thought she ought to be made ac- 
quainted with the prospect before her. She was 
still very weak and in some pain, and when I men- 
tioned her sufferings to her, and expressed my sor- 
row that she had so much to endure ; her face light- 
ed up with a glad smile : said she, — ■ 

" Oh, it is pleasant to suffer, when we know it is 
our God that brings us to it. He does not afflict me 
too much. My poor body is weak and almost gone ; 
but my God fills me with the delights of his love. 
My heart is full of joy. I am perfectly happy. I 
shall soon be where Christ is, and love Him forever." 

" I suppose," said I, " you are aware that you 
cannot now last but a little while ; and are prepared 
to go, at any moment when God bids." 

" I have no desire, sir, to get well. Why should 



THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 427 

I have ? There is nothing in this world for me. 
You see we have nothing. I have parted with all 
my little furniture and my clothes, to get bread and 
pay our debts ; and I don't want the world ; it is no- 
thing to me now, and I leave it willingly. I am 
happy. God makes me happy, Christ is enough 
for me. I love to trust God's promises. I trust 
Him for all I want, and He makes me very happy. 
Death seems like nothing to me. It is my friend. 
I welcome it. Dying is only a step, and then I shall 
be at home, at home ;" and tears of joy coursed down 
her smiling face. The last word — home, which she 
had uttered, seemed to remind her of her earthly 
home, and she added, — 

" To-morrow, I hope to go home to my mother, 
and see her and all my other friends once more ; 
perhaps I may." 

" I am afraid not, my dear friend. You are very 
low, and I wish you to be ready to die at any 
moment." 

Turning her death-glazed eyes upon me, she 
asked, — 

" Shall I die to-night? If you think so, tell me 
plainly. Don't weep so for me. I thank you for 
all your kind sympathy ; but I am perfectly happy. 
God fulfils to me all His promises. I leave all in 
His hands — gladly, joyfully. But I think I can live 
to get home. You think I shall die to-night. I 



428 THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 

thank yon for letting me know it ; and I am ready 
if God calls. But if I am alive, may I see you in 
the morning ? G od will reward you, I know, for 
all your kindness to me." 

" Yes, my child ; you may expect me here in the 
morning ; "but if you have anything you wish to 
say to me, you had better say it now." 

"I have no more to say, but to thank you again, 
Your kind words have done me great good ; and it 
has been sweet to me, very sweet, to join with you 
in prayer. Help me to praise God for the delights 
that fill my soul. Don't weep so for me." 

I prayed with her, and praised God as she desired, 
and then bade hex farewell. " Do not think I weep 
because I am sorry," said she, " I weep because I 
am overcome with joy. Delights fill my happy soul. 
This is the dawn of heaven. My heaven is begun. 
Dying is sweet to me. I go to my blessed Lord. I 
thank you for coming to me. Farewell, farewell." 

Early the next morning I returned to that privi- 
leged garret. It was empty ! Even her corpse was 
not there ! She had died about four hours after I 
left her ; her ho&y had been placed in its coffin, 
conveyed on board the vessel, and on the very day 
in which she expected to see her " mother once more," 
her mother received the lifeless corpse of her child. 

It now lies buried in the grave-yard of her native 
valley. She and Mary Ann sleep side by side. 



THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 4*?9 

And they shall rise together from the dead, in that 
coming day when our Lord Jesus Christ shall be 
revealed from heaven, ' to be glorified in his saints, 
and to be admired in all them that believe.' 

If grace is there, how instructive, how glorious is 

THE DEATH BSi) OF THE POOR. 

11 Tread softly — bow the head — 
In reverent silence bow ; 
No passing bell doth toll — 
Yet an immortal soul 
Is passing now. 

u Stranger! however great, 

With, lowly reverence bow ; 
There's one in that poor shed — 
One on that paltry bed — 
Greater than thou. 

" Beneath that beggar's roof, 

Lo ! Death doth keep his state 
Enter — no crowd attend : 
Enter — no guards defend 
This palace gate. 

ik That pavement, damp and cold, 
No smiling courtiers tread ; 



430 THE DAWN OF HEAVEN. 

One silent yeoman stands — 
Lifting with meagre hands 
A dying head. 

" No mingling voices sound- — 
An infant wail alone ; 
A sob suppressed — again 
That short, deep gasp, and then 
The parting groan. 

" Oh ! change — Oh wondrous change**** 
Burst are the prison bars ; 
This moment there, so low, 
So agonized, and now 
Beyond the stars. 

i4 Oh ! change — stupendous change f 
There lies the soulless clod • 
The sun eternal breaks — 
The new immortal wakes — 
Wakes with his Grod." 



THE END. 



The following is the Table of Contexts of the 
former series of " A Pastor's Sketches :" 



TE>E YOUNG IRISHMAN. 

FAITH EVERYTHING. 

SIMPLICITY OF FAITH. 

WAITING FOR THE HOLY SPIRIT. 

BUSINESS HINDRANCE. 

WAITING FOR CONVICTION. 

NOT DISCOURAGED. 

RELIANCE ON MAN. 

BAD ADVICE. 

THE WHOLE HEART. 

WELSH WOMAN AND TENANT. 

THE HOLY SPIRIT RESISTED. 

THE HEART PROMISED. 

FIXED DESPAIR. 

TOTAL DEPRAVITY. 

IGNORANCE OF SELF. 

SUPERFICIAL CONVICTION. 

EXCITEMENT. 

ASHAMED OF CHRIST. 

THE LAST STEP. 



THE PERSECUTED WIFE. 
THE ARROW DRIVEN DEEPER. 
DIVIDED MIND. 
HUMAN RESOLVES. 
I Can't REPENT. 
A STRANGE SNARE. 
FANATICISM. 
A mother's PRAYER. 
EASY TO BE A CHRISTIAN. 
PROSELYTING. 
THE OBSTINATE GIRL. 
CONVICTION RESISTED. 
DETERMINATION. 
THE MISERABLE HEART. 
UNCONDITIONAL SUBMISSION. 
THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 
ELECTION. 
THE BROWN JUG. 
THE HARVEST PAST, 
i DOCTRINES AND DEATH. 



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